See You Next Mission
by Insomniac and Floyd
Summary: Even legends have to start somewhere. An exploration of Samus Aran's rise from obscurity to greatness through a collection of independent, interconnected stories. (Fans, old and new, are encouraged to follow, favorite, and review.)
1. The Pilot

_Episode: The Pilot  
Primary author: Insomniac By Choice  
Revisionist: Mild Guy_

* * *

**Kalo-Kalo Echer Colony**  
**Mon Chas Star System**  
**1020 Local Standard Time**  
**24-09-14 Galactic Federation Standard Date**

On the first day of spring, as the faint red sun staked its path through the cool gray sky of mid-morning, a soot-stained child darted from a burning building toward one that would soon catch fire. Pillars of oily smoke filled the sky from the ruined town, mushrooming when they reached the thinning air miles above, just below the belly of the starship, metallic and tickish, that sat ominously in low atmosphere, sucking life out of the land below.

Amid the roar of flames and grumble of collapsing roofs, what used to be a small rural township on an unimportant colony burned now — everything seemed to be burning — but there were some structures that fire had not yet touched and some that fire could ruin no more. A boy, small and thin, perhaps age seven, ducked under remnants of the fallen archway to the entrance of a small general store. His black hair was mixed with soot, and his dark brown skin was covered in ash; he was hard to spot even for those looking for him, and probably this was why he was still able to run when no one else could. Eighteen hours ago the raid had started, and the boy hadn't seen another Human or otherwise civilized creature alive for at least ten.

Parties of Space Pirates hurried from structure to structure, checking to see if there was anything worthwhile left to take, setting fire to it if not – setting fire to it if so, as well. They chittered and screeched at one another constantly. They had been wary in the beginning, or at least careful; no longer. They felt they had nothing to fear anymore.

From under cover, the boy watched a group of six come out of the apartments he'd just been in. They may have been tracking him specifically, but he hoped they were just being thorough. He should have moved more quickly to get inside, perhaps out of a window then. Either way they would come his way next, and the animal part of his brain, unevolved and often admonished, raced to think of the best way to survive: blend in and hope for imperceptiveness or flee and pray for their disinterest?

He had heard of Space Pirates before, but never paid attention to the lessons, the safety holovids, the emergency instructions. He lived in the Middle, not the Outer Rim. And the odds of Pirates attacking any one colony were so miniscule anyway so as not to be even considered; his father had told him so many times. His father had once been a Galactic Federation official once and would know.

Then the boy had watched them eat his father. And his mother. And younger sister. Meanwhile he had hidden in the crawlspace below the kitchen and been too terrified to breathe, much less scream or cry. When the Pirates finally set fire to his family's home, he'd waited till he was more afraid of the fire than the Pirates, and almost been cooked alive. That might have been preferable, from hindsight's vantage, but the boy was too distracted now for retrospect.

The Pirates had no distractions now, and although he was sure _he_ wouldn't be able to see himself from where they were, they stared straight at him. He didn't move, his chest rose not at all nor his eyes even to blink, and his skin was as hard as the stone and cold as metal around him. Even so, the group of Pirates came toward the store and formed a semicircle around him, and it was too late to run anywhere — if ever he'd had time. He saw their yellow eyes focus down on him, almost glowing in the dim light with lusty hunger.

The boy had smelled nothing but smoke and ash for hours, but he could smell _them_ well now: rotten meat and bile, sewage and decay. His nostrils filled with the end of all things.

They would take their time. They would enjoy him, savor him as their last fresh meal of the raid, and they would have no pity, nor consider it. He'd seen them pull the babies out of mothers to eat the children first and watch the mothers witness it. No, the Pirates would not be moved by his cries. They would not balk at his tears.

One monstrous alien, larger and sturdier than the rest, came forward, reptilian and insectile all at once. On its head, the orange crest of a chieftain flared flush with excitement, and its serrated beak opened wide as it pushed aside a bit of rubble on the stair steps, moving to take hold of the boy's thigh in a clawed grasp. Seeing nothing else to do, the boy vainly covered his face, for he wanted to see nothing else that was to happen.

Then — out of nowhere — the Pirate's claw was gone. As it paused to examine the new development, its crested head disappeared as well, and the Pirate fell onto the ground, dead and gone but for the twitching, with no capacity for self-examination.

The other Pirates quickly forgot about the boy and began looking around at the shattered windows and still-standing roofs to see who had ambushed them, but it was too late and too sudden for them to do anything now. Bullets and pulse blasts came from everywhere it seemed, punching through their carapaces; they went down, writhing, screaming and firing their weapons, but inflicting no harm on anyone but themselves.

The boy uncovered his head, miraculously also unharmed. He looked around at what had just happened, unable to believe it had in fact happened and was not simply the product of his wishful imagination playing out in extreme detail for his last moments. But the fantasy continued, and he stood, sleepwalking toward – he hoped – his deliverance. Out from the nearby buildings walked the royal blue, twice-a-Human-tall powered exoskeletons of six Galactic Policemen and the camouflaged half suits of two guildsman bounty hunters with yellow-class striped shoulders. The boy couldn't see them immediately, but four more Policemen held their positions on the roofs and behind the walls of surrounding buildings: twenty-four in all of the group in the area.

While the others stopped and began to re-survey the situation, one Policeman walked up to the boy from out of the ruined café next door.

"Are you OK?" the Galactic Policeman asked the boy. The boy turned and saw the Policeman was wearing not a crest on his head but a prominent insignia instead; the man in the powered suit came closer and knelt, bringing the insignia closer to the boy's face. "Are you injured?" the Policeman asked again when the boy made no response. This time the child shook his head for no, but stared yet at the symbol that stared back at him: a third eye all-seeing, with three bars over it.

"Have you seen anyone else nearby, any Pirates, any survivors?"

The boy shook his head.

"Alright, sit tight champ. We're going to take care of you," the same Policeman said, and that was the last thing the boy heard out of them for a very long time.

* * *

**1030 Local Standard Time**  
**24-09-14 Galactic Federation Standard Date  
GFP Team Rama-8 **

"What about you two; are you OK?" Lieutenant Rappett asked the two bounty hunters present through their internal communication. They were standing with him inside the ruined store and looked fine; still he had to ask. His visor's Heads Up Display told him none of the Policemen had been injured, but the independent contractors from the Reconstituted Knotts Guild were on their own comms system and couldn't integrate.

"We're fine, Lieutenant," the guildsman in the shorter of the two armors said first, poking at part of the roof that had fallen in through the ceiling. His artificial stalk eyes swiveled to better look at the debris. Normally Rappett would have had white-class hunters helping him at every auxiliary position, but he was lucky to get even yellows in times like these. The guildsman Tlaco spoke also for his fellow named Gergin, some sort of tentacled non-Human that Rappett hadn't heard of before. Both had some experience doing military work prior, but like many things, they worried him now.

"That's good."

Rappett checked the time. A transport ship should have contacted him 15 minutes earlier to let them know where a pick-up was going to happen. On a raid colony, that failure boded less-than-well.

"The pilot is late," Rappett confirmed for those who may not have been sure. "Our Good Mister White should be back any moment now, but until then sit tight and keep guard. Staff Sergeant Li will work on finding out where our ride is or where we can find another lift, in any case. Li?"

Li acknowledged it, and busied himself in attempting a hail, but had no good news to speak immediately. The others began to mill about the inside the colony store, an oddity for many, and talk they had been putting off spilled out.

"What kind of government does, well, _did_ this back-hole place have, anyway?" Specialist Isof said, staring down at the few and meager supplies strewn about the floor.

"The fiefdom was either a democracy or an oligarchy," Medic Spc. Freel said. "I never can remember or tell the difference, except one pays better taxes and the other is less wont to try not paying. And to be honest, I don't know which is worse."

"Well I ain't seen something worse than this here since Yurusaga," Spc. Isof said, walking over to inspect an aisle that was still upright. "You know, I never thought I'd see something worse than sand-mad Xigs fighting tax-evasion charges. But cousin, these Pirates, they're _it_."

Isof picked up a small bag of chewing seeds and tossed them to Sergeant Lasque. Lasque caught them and unhooked the lower part of his helmet to try a few before tossing them back to Isof.

"Last three engagements the fleet has been on out this way have been Space Pirates, haven't they?" Lasque said, prefacing the spit of a husk.

"Something like that," Isof said.

"My sources tell me the main fleet was supposed to hit the homeplanet Zebes soon, if they haven't already," Tlaco the bounty hunter said, poking a finger at some livestock feed. The finger went through the bag and a fine grain began to fall out onto the floor. One of the two artificial eyes swung low from the helmet to follow it. "Wonder why the Federation finally decided to give a crap about the Rim Bugs. If you ask me, they're doing us a favor every time they wipe out colonists."

"I was born on a colony myself, Outer Rim," Sgt. Miercoles said.

"I apologize, sergeant. I didn't realize—" Tlaco started.

"Don't worry. As I was saying, I'm from the Rim, so I know you're probably right," Miercoles said. "Sgt. Lasque, pass some of those vittles over Tlaco's way, would you?"

Lasque did, but the yellow-class bounty hunter threw them back.

"Thank you, but I can't take off my helmet in this atmosphere," Tlaco said.

"Oh that's right; Skinnies can't handle this much CO2. My apologies," Miercoles said. "Funny, I never met a Skinny bounty hunter who made it as far as yellow. You must be something of a prodigy."

"Growing up, I always did want to be a bounty hunter," Specialist Tronie said, reaching for one of the surviving bottles of a domestic brew stand that had turned over onto the floor. "You fellas were always pitching endorsements, throwing cash around. Picking up the cutest girls in the neighborhood as you liked. I mean the white-class bounty hunters, of course."

"Of course," Tlaco said, humorously.

"They're far between and few, but it's times like these I do wish you white-class space boys hadn't gone and killed all each other," Tronie said. "We sure could use more of _their_ caliber about now."

"Someone _else_ may have had a something with do to that," Gergin growled through his suit's digital-translator, and the conversation tapered off until a powered exoskeleton with a white stripe down the middle of the helmet came sprinting back to the main group.

"In case you were interested, the Pirates are in a _fine mood_," the new arrival said. A vent on his neck leaked brow-sweat. "They've stopped looting entirely and are starting to dig in. Literally. These here were the last I saw walking around. I think they're making tunnels. I don't know what's spooked them."

"Yeah, well, didn't you hear?" Tlaco said, laughing. "The Federation contracted _'The Guildslayer' _for this job. We're the ones who ought to be digging to protect _ourselves_ if we can't get back from our recon before he arrives."

"The Red Death? That's impossible," Lespen the white class bounty hunter said, holstering his modified pistol in favor of a regulation rifle like the rest. "He just had a job in the Central Planets a week ago. Some cush sponsorship appearance worth 500 million Yire. The going rate on this hot mess was 200-kay per Pirate." Lespen reconsidered. "Well, for me it was."

"Dropped him everything second saw a posting on it Network and here came straight," Gergin said. The others expected Gergin to follow it with a joke, but the jest didn't come. The twenty-one Policemen and other two bounty hunters quietly checked the Integrated Media Network for verification. The Lattice's rumor logs confirmed it.

"I can't imagine wasting that much money to come out and kill a bunch of bugs," Tlaco said.

The lieutenant shrugged.

"Some folk aren't too fond of Pirates," Rappett said. He pointed at the boy. "That one's going to make one hell of a Policeman someday, don't you think?"

But the boy wasn't looking at Rappett; he was looking up through the hole in the roof at something.

Seeing a flash above, as one the rest looked up to focus on the source. The telescopic section of their HUDs showed the Space Pirate command ship, a speck hanging in low atmosphere, but tilting toward the ground where it had been parallel before. All over its outer hull it seemed covered with boils that burst, though with small explosions rather than pus, and now it fell in what appeared to be slow motion as they looked on from so great a distance.

"Shit." Rappett said. "Call me a pessimist, but sergeant, does that trajectory look like it's going to come our way at all?"

"Yeah," SSgt. Li said. "In about five minutes it might _well behoove_ us to be about ten klicks south. Twelve if we can't get good cover."

Everyone was ready.

"Mr. White," Rappett said, turning toward Lespen, "any suggestions on a route where there aren't likely to be many Pirates?"

"I haven't found one yet. I'll send you the route where I saw the least, though."

"OK. If Pirates are on our way, let's hope they're more bothered watching their ride home crash into the ground next to them than they are of us. _I_ would be, but the intricacies of Space Pirate psychology escape me. Watch yourselves; no one else can. And someone be sure to grab the boy."

It was Tlaco who did, and they poured out of the general store and ran, chewing up meters in each step. No one panicked or said anything betraying worry, but they all kept glancing at the screen in their Heads Up Display showing the steady progress of the ship toward earth, the path along the dotted line that brought its many thousands of tons closer to them. As the twenty-one Policemen and three bounty hunters ran, they laid down bursts of fire at spots Lespen had scouted and marked as holding Pirates. Sometimes it appeared they hit nothing, but every so often shots from the surrounding buildings or what looked like solid ground came out at them. They didn't slow. Their armor stopped most everything, and they didn't have time to stop for anyone that got knocked down and couldn't get up to run again.

The lieutenant turned his HUD to a live view and saw the ship burning white hot at the front, pieces breaking up behind it.

And of course he knew it couldn't be real, just like he knew when he told people about it later, none of them would believe him because his brain didn't believe the yarn his eyes spun for him now.

There was a tall, sleek, powered exoskeleton standing on the top of the hull, also burning white hot, but apparently unaffected. Rappett couldn't figure out what the figure was doing, until he saw a smaller vessel — an escape pod — dart away from the main ship. The exoskeleton fired a pulse from its sole arm cannon and the pod exploded. The figure ran back and forth between both sides of the ship, and the Lieutenant knew some of the emergency craft must have gotten away, but he didn't see any of them with his own eyes.

Finally, just before the ship was about to smack the ground with all tremendous thunder of apocalyptic mass and acceleration, the figure went running and leapt off the top of the ship — into empty air, it appeared.

But an escape shuttle soon appeared near the falling exoskeleton and just when it looked like the shuttle would pass by the powered suit, leaving it to fall helplessly to the ground, the exoskeleton began moving along with the ship and Rappett saw its lonely hand had grabbed onto the shuttle's wing and kept hold.

_That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever seen_, Rappett either thought or muttered, but before he could linger on the sight, Rappett turned back to the command ship, now taking the tops off of some of the buildings they'd passed minutes before.

"Take cover!" Rappett ordered, and everyone immediately did, most going straight for a nearby ditch; the rest lay on the ground near building walls, shielding the vital part of their suits as well as possible. The bounty hunter Tlaco put the native boy in culvert and he and two other Policemen curled their suits around the entrance to further protect his body with their armor.

The far-off rumble only slightly preceded the roar and rush of wind and sound that blew off the top of a building beside them. Dust and debris went soaring overhead, thick as a haboob on a dead planet. Then the rain of wood, stone and steel began to fall and the lieutenant gave a second look to the armored cocoon they'd tried to make for the boy. Rappett couldn't see him, and thought that was a good sign.

* * *

Rappett began to take survey of their losses. There were still sixteen electronically active suits; he hailed them all to manually report their status. He hoped at least one of the inactives had just had some part of their comms system blown off and were otherwise all right. Three of the active suits had corpses inside; five had lost a limb or more.

His call to the bounty hunters went about like he'd expected. Lespen was alive and well, Gergin had a hole through his chest, but medical gel and his own anatomy were ensuring he could be set right.

"Tlaco's dead, lieutenant," Sgt. Miercoles said, pulling the never-again-to-be-animated bounty hunter's body off the culvert's entrance. The boy looked dead, too, but Miercoles assured Rappett the child was all right, poking a foot in the boy's ribs to demonstrate. The boy groaned audibly, but didn't complain.

Of the twenty-three people he'd brought planetside with him, he had eleven still capable of defending themselves under normal circumstances, maybe fourteen if they were defending themselves to the death. Whatever progress Li had made getting a pilot, Rappett didn't know. Li didn't have much going on below the waist at the moment and his suit had him completely out of it on anesthetics. MSpc. Freel said Li would be loopy for a few hours, anyway, so trying to wake him wouldn't do much. Rappett swallowed a mouthful of spit and gave the order to consolidate and work on some barricades.

Twenty minutes later Lespen and Spc. Nircap set Gergin on the ground next to the others who'd need further treatment, the last of those who couldn't walk himself. Then they both joined the makeshift slit trench, scanning the streets and rubble for any Pirates that might be retreating – or even advancing – their way. The fog of dirt and filth continued to whip through the air. Rappett had more able-bodied people placed facing where they'd come from than where they'd been running toward; the white-class bounty hunter had said he couldn't be sure but had a hunch the Pirates had skimmed the city's outskirts and the ship's direction held most of the danger.

A minute or so passed and Lespen asked if the Lieutenant wouldn't mind having a private conversation for a moment. Rappett considered denying the request, but acquiesced as courtesy. Lespen had been a solid professional so far.

"What's your business?" Rappett said.

"Did you see what happened to their ship to make it crash?"

"Why does it matter?" Rappett said.

"Because I took this mission under the impression that we were doing a recon job for Bug habits and tactics," Lespen said. "It wasn't in the official contract, you know, but that was understood. We come in, we poke around, we go home and make a report. Zebes prep."

"Maybe it still is," Rappett said, trying to sound unperturbed.

"If that's the case, why did your damn Feds shoot the raid ship down from space and put us in this mess?"

"It wasn't the Federation," Rappett said, "it was—"

But before Rappett could say it, a swarm of ten Space Pirates burst out of the smoke, running toward the trench and Policemen.

"North! North! Fire, fire, fire!" Rappett ordered, and everyone opened up, using burst fire to knock down the Pirates assaulting their position. The first ten were knocked down, but more soon showed up, and Rappett shifted the Policemen in the rear to helping hold the front. It wasn't enough. Pirates appeared at their flanks in the dozens and — continued to run past? Rappett swung around to look at where they were going, watching for any to double back, but they didn't. It was if they were fleeing from something.

As he turned back north, something came walking up the middle of the street, dust still swirling in front of him to obscure the sliver of electromagnetic spectrum most Policemen's eyes could interpret unaided, but he re-entered their vision when lit up by the occasional pulse blast and followed a quarter-second later by the sound and reverberation.

_Ssscha-whoosh whoosh whoosh._

Then the dust parted for a moment completely and Rappett saw him clearly for just a moment, _sauntering_ down the middle of the goddamned street like there wasn't anyone else on the whole of the planet except for him and the things he was killing, killing without but a portion of his concentration or effort. The figure's suit was solid gold but for the silver-green cannon on the right arm that dared you not to notice it, and helmet and chest that seemed bleeding blood red. Crisscrossing his body were the leather straps of numerous disposable packs, including one slung low around his waist playing host to two pistols, ammo and first aid.

The figure's cannon arm jerked from point to point at speeds unfollowable by eye naked while his other arm, fully formed till and through the fingers, carried a pulse rifle that tracked back and forth before him steady like a metronome. The Policemen had stopped firing but Pirates continued to fall around them.

Bounty hunters topped out at white class, officially, and so did this one. But only one bounty hunter got to call himself "gold class" and convince other people to use it.

The boy, who had reawakened and come over to their position just in time for this, spoke again for the first time in what seemed like hours.

"Who is that?"

"Samus fucking Aran," Lespen the white-class bounty hunter spat, still unable to stop the words from releasing themselves from his tongue, or keep the awe from his tone.

The smoke collapsed over the image again, as quickly as it had appeared, and the Policemen split another few minutes switching between their infra and ultra-v visors while listening extra close to the chirps, charges and screeches ever-approaching behind the veil of dust.

When at last the infamous bounty hunter emerged from the airy colloid debris field in the street — tall unperturbed, unwary (seeming) — Rappett didn't know what to say or do. His unit, what remained of it, trained their guns tensely on the strange armored suit they had to pretend not to recognize, that nonetheless they all did, and could have sketched from memory.

The bounty hunter — Samus — stopped a few dozen meters from them all and his cannon arm twitched between each location the Policemen stood at, even those well-hidden. Rappett wondered who had the drop on whom.

A faint high-pitch squeal was in the lieutenant's ear for hardly a moment, then entered a voice full and clear, but tonelessly mechanical, and faintly childlike.

"Lt. Argyle Rappett," Samus said, inside of _their_ own Comsat system, already where a bounty hunter should have had to ask permission to be.

"Aran."

"I am about to access your auxiliaries' recon info. In return, I'm giving you what I have so far. Is that overly troublesome for you?"

"No, that's fine." But already Rappett had a map covering it seemed half the planet showing where Pirates were and were dead or dying.

"I trust you have nothing more pressing for me than clearing the immediate area, _sir_," Samus said. Even in voxcoder, the tone was unmistakable. "Wonderful. I've hailed a ship for you because I understand you've been looking for a ride out of this zone. I'll rendezvous with your squad or otherwise contact your command for further instructions in 0500 hours, then?"

"Sure," Rappett blurted.

"Wonderful." He holstered his rifle and swung some med pacs their way. "It is always a pleasure to serve the Federation and professionals such as yourself, sir. "

Samus turned, as if to disappear back into the smoke again, but stopped and turned back.

"Boy," he said, point at the colonist. He dropped his arm, apparently remembering the situation. "Lt. Rappett, may I borrow your charge? It will take only a moment."

Rappett looked down at the boy, but already he was climbing out of the ditch and walking toward the bounty hunter, compelled as though hearing a piper. When the boy got close, Aran dropped to one knee and placed a giant hand on the child's shoulder. After about 30 seconds, he shook the boy violently, punctuating something, then released him and the boy returned to the ditch as Samus stood and sprinted away, a ghost.

When the boy slid back down into the ditch, Rappett wanted to ask what Samus had said, but restrained himself. Lespen, apparently, could not.

"Hey, kid," the white-class guildsman said. "What did Aran tell you?"

The boy's face scrunched up as he tried not to remember but to figure it out.

"He said I was free to do whatever I want now. But," he mouthed wordless things, before going on, "but if I ever forget that the Space Pirates are the ones who did this and he finds me again, he'll kill me. Because I owe remembering to everyone else. Who died here and can't."

Lespen grunted and asked nothing more. The boy turned to Rappett.

"He also said the transport should get here in 28 minutes."

Far off, the sound of a pulse cannon echoed.

* * *

Sure enough, a small carrier transport landed not far from their location and Rappett and his surviving men, more than he'd have expected from the aftermath they were leaving, climbed aboard, along with the colony boy and powered exoskeletons of the dead they'd recovered, including the yellow class bounty hunter.

"You're late," Rappett growled at the pilot as he made his way into the cockpit.

"I just wanted to more make the arrival action-packed," the pilot replied without looking back at the lieutenant. "No one likes a boring start to things, right?"

Wearing a gargantuan helmet that plugged directly into its spine, the pilot was a lipless, reptilian species of some sort Rappett didn't recognize, so he wasn't sure how to take the comment, but it looked like the pilot was smiling with self-satisfaction and Rappett had to stop himself from punching their only ticket out of there.

"You weren't worth the wait. Just get my people out of here."

The pilot smiled again, or maybe its face was just impassive, and the ship started up, lifting off of the ground.

"We'll get back to Camp Striker, soon," the pilot said as they began to zoom over the landscape.

"They put a base camp here on this pissant little outpost? What in the three goddesses for?"

"The hell if _I_ know. They pay me to pick up little vaginas who get themselves in over their labia majora. Does that make sense in human biology? I've been studying."

"Yes, yes, well done," Rappett lied. "So you have no idea?"

"Well, what I heard, and this is just camp talk I pieced together from rumor, supposition, and fantasy, Zebes went _spectacularly_ poorly, and they want to understand how the Bugs dig down before they give invading another go."

"Why don't they just blow it up from space? Or ram something big into it really, really fast."

"Ah, but rampant speculation is that the Pirates have their hands on something oh-so-pretty and nice that we dear Feds would like to have ourselves. And blowing it all to the twelve hells would be an awful damn shame. And waste."

"So we're all about to load up and go to Zebes, then?"

"If by 'we' you mean that fellow that just now wrecked a Pirate raid ship single-handed and managed to get hold of me through a total comms blackout, then ya, 'we're' going to Zebes."

"They're outsourcing a failed Policemen job to a fucking bounty hunter?"

"According to my completely unfounded inside sources, yep."

"What makes him so special?"

Then the pilot laughed and laughed and laughed.

"All I did was watch _your_ visor feed over someone else's shoulder, and you're asking _me_ that? Seriously?"

Rappett looked out the back window, but already the world was curving too far away.

* * *

**1845 Galactic Federation Standard Time**  
**09-10-14 Galactic Federation Standard Date  
Galactic Federation Forward Base 'STRIKER'**

Kero Lespen moved the flaps aside and walked in to the tent. Bunks and storage lockers for guildsmen bounty hunters lined the walls, and in the corner an ancient, pitiable communication panel buzzed with decrepitude, but no one else was milling about inside at the moment. In the center of the temporary facility, Gergin was still floating in the fluids of a vertical recovery tank, naked even of skin, flesh and four limbs on his left side.

Despite being of the same guild-system, as a white Lespen hadn't known the yellow-class bounty hunter before this job, and just a few years ago wouldn't have cared what happened to the Vozod after this mission. But there were no other ReKnotts Guild auxiliaries at the camp now, and it wasn't a few years ago. Gergin should have been removed days earlier for better medical care. The RKG should have personally taken him off-planet instead of waiting for room on a Galactic Policemen transport ship. But "should" wasn't "is" anymore. It was Samus Aran's galaxy now; they just lived in it.

Lespen sat down on a stool beside the almost prehistoric med equipment that allowed the aquatic Vozod bounty hunter to breathe while the four tentacles that had been crushed to pulp ten days before continued to reform in the nutrient-rich bath — without the benefit of suitable anesthetic. The outline that the limbs were to eventually grow back into within the plastic cast could only occasionally be seen in the dim light of the shared auxiliary tent. Gergin's nervous system hadn't yet fully blossomed into its endings, otherwise he'd be screaming instead of asleep.

"Why are you doing here, ivory swine?" the translator beside the tank read suddenly. Lespen looked up to see one of Gergin's gigantic eyes roll open to stare at him.

"I wanted to check and see if the Vozod were as weak as their slippery women hark tell," Lespen said, running his hand through locks of his pale white hair. An almost translucent eyelid briefly hid one of the white-class Human's sky blue eyes in a wink as a smile quickly journeyed across the chiseled chin. "Crying for your spawn mother yet, eh?"

"What is today?" Gergin asked on his display.

"It's 09-10-14: The ninth day of the tenth month of the year 2014 of the history of the cosmos."

"I'm sick, not stupid, albino rich man," Gergin said. He rotated his body flush with Lespen. "Feeling starting to come back yet. Tomorrow, day after will be for sure. You bring pistol with then. Ha."

Lespen laughed, too, knowing as Gergin did that it wasn't entirely a joke.

"You may end up envying Tlaco yet."

"Already do. When if I smell as bad as him, throw me off the planet too though finally. Nicely, huh?"

Lespen laughed and nodded, not entirely sure what that meant, and not wanting to know.

"But of speaking," Gergin's translator wrote out, "what of the Devil in Red?"

Lespen shifted uncomfortably. In the corner of the bounty hunter tent the comms viewscreen whined at a high pitch.

"Well, _interesting_ news, anyway. I can't say I'm fond of Samus or Policemen," Lespen started, "but the one thing I agree with both of them on is hating the other."

"Natural."

"So, if you're a Policeman, you can only put up with so much from a space boy, no matter what his reputation. When our 'gold class' hunter came back to re-supply at the armory last week, a Policeman finally asked why Samus had bothered to come to Kalo-Kalo Echer when so many professionals were here already who could've done the work better."

"Police guy joked?" Gergin asked.

"Not that he realized. So, the Policeman was in his exoskeleton, had six more behind him in theirs. Samus was just passing by in his own suit, but stopped."

"Stopped?"

"Yeah. The Guildslayer stopped, looked back over his shoulder but didn't say anything at first. The backup Policemen start to find other places to be. 'My contract is to kill Pirates,' Samus says, in that weird girly-machine voice. And then, 'And I am going to kill every last one of them.' Policemen don't say anything else and Samus went on, but they laughed about it for a couple days because that was the last anyone has heard of Aran, and some figured the Pirates finally got him. Others said he went house to house killing anything with yellow eyes, that the Policemen and other hunters didn't even have to mop up, just gather up and care for the very few survivors there were. I don't know which yet."

"Did you ever get talk at Policemen that way? Before it all, I mean," Gergin said.

"No. Maybe the Guilds United used to, years ago," Lespen amended, "but even a decade ago when I started, you had to know your place around Feds and Policemen."

"You were good very," Gergin said. "I remember."

"Do you?"

"Yes. The holovids. It is why that I am here." Gergin turned his big eyes to where his left tentacles should have been before the translator began to type out another response. "I mean as a bounty hunter. The one who put me here died by the Pirates, I hope."

"We both do," the Human concurred.

The tentflap rustled opened and Lespen stood up to see who was walking in. But he should have known already.

"Good evening, gentlemen," Samus Aran said uncannily, horribly, walking directly to the tank but stopping about four meters away from them. His suit was absent the leather add-ons now, but they'd been replaced with soot, dirt, and sticky-stains of uncertain source. "I hope you are recovering well, R'edg Gergin. But then, hope on its own rarely accomplishes much, does it?"

The "thank you," that had appeared on the translator screen quickly disappeared.

"Kero Lespen, it was an honor to work with you on Zero Day," Samus said, turning attention but not posture to the Human. "I am always impressed with the performance of white-class bounty hunters when our aims aren't cross."

Lespen said nothing.

"So, you can imagine my embarrassment," Samus continued, "having to ask you to leave now while I receive a private communication here."

"What? That's stupid. This is the shared _guildsman_ tent. You're an independent! You don't have permission to _be_ here, much less force anyone else out."

"I agree. I am absolutely _mortified_ by the entire affair but," Samus shrugged and turned his left palm face down, "such are my orders." A small hologram appeared in mid-air from the back of Samus's hand stating just that, with a verified encryption seal confirming it. "I would not be opposed to you going to challenge the base commander on my behalf regarding this missive — if you were so inclined, of course."

Lespen stared at Samus and felt the anger bubbling up as the present moment mixed with memories of reports of the Guildslayer, and the white-class bounty hunters who weren't hunters or just _weren't_ anymore.

"One day, you'll get what's coming to you, Aran," Lespen spat, but his feet carried him past the armored bounty hunter and out of the tent.

Samus waited a moment then approached the tank until he was touching the controls. The hand began to furiously type until an intravenous tube found its way to an external port.

"Now, we can't move you, R'edg Gergin, but we can make you leave for a moment," Samus said, connecting the tube to the underside of his palm after he stopped typing. A clear fluid began to flow from the suit toward the Vozod, but before he could pull the tube out of his body, the sedative painkillers reached him and his remaining four tentacles went limp again. His eyes drooped and stayed only slightly open, but there was no more sight in them.

Samus said nothing more, at least that his suit spoke aloud, and he moved to the corner to interface with a viewscreen made to look like it was already half-junked, but in reality encrypted and hyper-objectivized for nigh-instantaneous long distance communication.

Samus sat down in front of it, and the screen lit up. The bounty hunter uploaded all of the information his suit had mapped during his time in the planet's tunnels. Supposedly this was to be important, as important as cleaning up the colony, but no reason had been given yet. The data zoomed to its prearranged destination, and almost immediately came a reply.

"So you like to kill Pirates, huh?" a Federation intermediary — Human — said under the scrambled audio-visual message. "Ever heard of a planet called Zebes?"

There was a long silence, and it seemed like the legendary bounty hunter was offended.

"I'm listening," Samus said instead.

"Of course you are," the intermediary said. "Let me start at the beginning."

* * *

**~See You Next Mission~**

* * *

Everything is a cycle. The end of something is a beginning of another. The beginning of something is a repeat of something before. So it goes.

But to know where you're going, first you have to know where you've been. So, where are you?

**Next Episode: Green, part one**


	2. Episode 1: Green, part one

_Episode: Green Part 1  
Proto-author: KefkaFloyd  
Primary author: Insomniac By Choice  
Secondary author: KefkaFloyd_

_

* * *

  
__Space isn't actually cold, you know. Of course, it's not exactly hot, either. Maybe God spat it out of His mouth and that's why it's here. It isn't anything, really. It simply is. More than anything else in the universe, it is. Space… there's a place in it for everyone, even if it takes a long while to find that place. It may very well be that in the end, it isn't so much about the finding as it is the looking. In the end, everyone will find themselves at the same destination, but no one will come to it from the same path. Because that's what space provides: room for freedom. For opportunities. Room to blaze a trail. Room to fulfill a destiny and room to ignore it. Space is open, infinite. A harsh mistress and doting mother rolled up into one. And no matter how remote or alien a land it might appear, for a stranger, there's always something in it that feels quite familiar._

* * *

**Interstellar Space**  
**En Route to Grestch Platform of the Inner Lespe-IV Star System**  
**0520 Galactic Federation Standard Time**  
**21-09-07 Galactic Federation Standard Date **

A small ship traveled through space with hasty tranquility, surrounded in every direction by emptiness, darkness, and perfect silence. Inside the vessel, things were much the same.

The ship's Human passenger breathed in and out peacefully while she slept, dreamlessly. Though she didn't realize it, she was blest to have such a peaceful rest, for when she woke, life would quickly become quite hectic, merely the first step in a journey of perpetual chaos. To say it was the last peaceful moment of her life would be an exaggeration but not a great one.

In that context, morning came all too soon. The darkness lifted as the primary lights hummed to life and before long there was nary a shadow to be found. The Human girl groaned in her bed and attempted to resist the compulsion to roll over, wrap herself in her sheets, and go back to sleep. She started rubbing her eyes and face to rouse herself, then—when she was sufficiently lucid—sat up, threw her sheets off of her legs and got out of bed.

The act revealed her body in its full form, a shape that was feminine and appealing but not quite breath-taking for her womanhood had yet to fully blossom. Instead, her figure could best be described as youthful. Healthy. The ash gray shorts and top she wore framed muscles in perfect proportion, toned and powerful like that of a gymnast, but with a grace that seemed to imply classical sculpting, a description more apt than immediately apparent. Her skin was light and smooth but there was something hard to it, almost as if she truly _was_ carved out of stone. Likewise, her dispassionate face might have been fixed by a sculptor centuries ago, for she rarely smiled or frowned. The only means to differentiate between one of her moods and the next was whether she cursed, but even that she did with a bizarre evenness. Her eyes were blue and hair blonde, though one could only guess at the latter as it was just beginning to grow out again. She had been shaving her head for almost as long as she could remember and only grew it out now as an act of defiance against the norms of her previous people and a symbolic acceptance of her new society.

She was a girl in that middle state of existence, independent and self-reliant but youthful and in many ways naïve. Her beliefs were absolute, immutable, and infallible. What else would you call such a person but a child?

Space may be neither hot nor cold, but the steel paneling of a ship's floor can be quite chilly, an unwelcome sensation for the bare feet that have the arduous task of traversing it. As soon as the girl's feet touched the floor, all the grogginess evaporated, and she was completely awake. Her toes skipped gingerly across the surface, and she quickly reached the adjoining room.

It was a large multi-purpose area, and at the moment its purpose was to provide her with breakfast. As the small kitchenette rose out of the floor in front of her, she sat down at its counter and began to select her meal from the icons presented to her. She groaned again. Everything was out of stock by now except Yemen Insta-Noodles. She had bought them in bulk several weeks back because of the price, but she'd never tasted any. After she _did_ try her first one, it became readily apparent _why_ they were so affordable. The girl gagged reflexively at the memory and reluctantly tapped the noodle icon to bring up another menu. She had only bought two flavors, so she decided to try the kind she hadn't tasted yet. She didn't expect it to be much better, but she couldn't imagine how it could be any worse.

She made her selection, and the menu disappeared.

A moment later a cup of noodles rose from a hole in the countertop, and she forced herself to grab it and set it on the cooker, a flat circular device also on the countertop. It began to hum and shine, and a green ring of light traced up the length of the cup then back down, preparing it. The device dinged cheerily to announce that it was ready for consumption, and the girl took it off the cooker and opened it.

With her nutritious breakfast safely in hand, the kitchenette descended back into the bowels of the ship, and she anxiously glanced upward as the flat, rectangular viewscreen lowered itself from the ceiling, taking up much of the same space the kitchenette had just moments before.

The daily news feeds her ship received began to pour in and her screen automatically started scrolling through the headlines of the Integrated Media Network. Her eyes scanned them briefly to see if anything important was flying across the sub-spacewaves, and she promptly decided that the relationship status of celebrities she had never heard of and ad nauseam analysis of the same news that had been on yesterday did not meet such criteria. By the time it reached her, most information was several days or weeks old, anyway.

She gave a hand gesture and the galactic headlines disappeared, replaced by news from the local platforms and occupied planets, though as far out in the Rim as she was, hardly anything noteworthy ever came out of the planets. Again, nothing important caught her eye so she gave a hand gesture to switch over to the channel owned by the Concerned Citizens for Galactic Stability.

The feed and design of the channel was excellent quality, as would be expected of a bounty hunter guild as successful and important as the CCGS. News on the ticker scrolled across bottom, but the girl was uninterested in what she already knew was mostly self-promoting guild propaganda. Unfortunately, the center of the screen was little better. From what she could guess, it was a former white-level guildsman recounting stories of his glory days interspersed with actual and generated footage synced to his narration so as to be more appealing to potential viewers. Probably a special to try to get people to order CCGS Classic.

The girl could only guess at all of this because she had muted the viewscreen the first day she had used it and never felt the need to undo that action. So all that left was the sides of the screen. On the left there was a listing of the going rates of top bounty pullers in galaxy with CCGS members highlighted in bold. On the right it was the same but listed only CCGS members instead. In both cases each hunter was as interestingly named as any racehorse.

Space Ranger Omega.

"Big Time" Brannigan.

Rogue Gemini.

Big Bad Beowulf.

Ridiculous, the lot of them. The monetary values next to the names were equally ridiculous, but those were the good kind of ridiculous. The cheapest hunter listed on front screen had a going rate of fifty million Yire, fine money by any measure, but especially impressive considering that the median rate for all guild members was closer to one million Yire a job, which in turn was far higher than the average rate for independent hunters like her—about two hundred thousand.

After purchasing all of the necessary equipment and paying the registry costs, there was the overhead of powered suit and weapon maintenance, as well as ship upkeep and fuel, not to mention actual living expenses. For independents, just breaking even was considered good and so long as regular work could be had, that was fine, but as soon as it stopped, the bounty hunter was an instant pauper. Only guild members could make long term profit; all the others struggled and starved until they could no longer resist the temptations to cut their losses, sell back their equipment, and start over with a less exotic, more sensible job.

Such was the fate of the girl if she could not get a job in the near future. Though her former people had given her a powered suit and vessel free, she still had to pay for the fixed costs of operating in her occupation and without any new funds coming in, her once large supply Yire was steadily declining. It would have helped if she had been part of a guild but such a thing would be almost impossible considering she hadn't even been on her first mission yet. Besides, she wouldn't owe anyone anything for her success. She would become the best without any help and without making any compromises.

The girl had had enough of the CCGS channel and went to the listing of the Independent Channel to check her account for any offers. All she needed was one job and after that, she would be on her way to the top. Just one job…

Ah.

**Subject**: _We would like to make you an offer…_  
**Contractor**: _Universal United Systec-Zaibac Corp._

She had expected her first job to come soon but a corporation? That usually promised very heavy payment. The girl restrained her rising excitement, selected the message, and opened it. She began to read.

_Are you in need of some credits? Does it seem like there's a Yire-vampire out there sucking you dry no matter what you try? Never fear. Universal United Systec-Zaibac Corp. is here to help. For the low, low price of 20,000 Yire, we can give you an instant line of credit of up to 2,000,000 Yire, no questions asked! _

She stopped reading and angrily deleted the message. Argh. The channel had promised to filter absolutely all spam out of her account but obviously that was not the case. The company had probably offered to help cover the costs of operating the channel for a while so that they could advertise to the personal accounts of bounty hunters. Of course the channel had accepted. It was always losing money, and if not for the Federal subsidies it would have gone under a long time ago.

Despite her crushed hopes, the girl decided to browse the general listing and her viewscreen located her position among them, an irrelevant grain of sand on the vast entrepreneurial beach. With a record of 0-0-0, she was ranked 51,871,632 among independent registered bounty hunters. That put her in the upper third. And since she was only asking for 300,000 Yire at default, that made her quite desirable, 9,456,334th in the listing. If she narrowed her parameters to those hunters within a week's travel, her qualifications were better yet: 766,287th. Ranked nearly seventy hundred sixty-six thousand, surely she jumped out at all contractors when they looked for someone to offer a job. Surely.

She sighed. Yes, it wasn't a surprise that she hadn't been contracted yet but none of the open bounties had piqued her interest, either. The good thing about accepting open bounties was that failure did not count against one's record, but that was the only advantage about them. Any bounty hunter who took it was most likely competing against ten or twenty or even a hundred others, depending on the reward, and since all bounties were pay on delivery, anyone who didn't bring in the bounty was out of luck. No, only desperate hunters took those jobs and the girl would never be that desperate. She might bid on a job, sure. Only the most successful of hunters could afford not to. But she would never sink so low as to chase after a bounty head with an open contract on him.

She looked down at the still untouched cup of noodles in her hand and growing cooler by the moment. If she was going to eat it, she should definitely eat it while it was hot. Yes, she should eat it right away. Just swallow her fear and swallow some food.

She decided, just for curiosity's sake, to look over some of the nearby bounties put out, of both the open and bid varieties. Nearly thirty thousand within a week's travel. But what about the platform she was currently traveling to? The girl had intended to just refuel there but might not this platform have a number of qualified jobs, as well?

The viewscreen showed her five thousand bounties based out of this platform. She filtered out the open bounties and was left with nine hundred current bid contracts. The girl watched as they were filled, disappeared, and new ones popped up to replace them. She moved to access one and get a closer look but as she did, the viewscreen told her that her selection was no longer available. Odd. She accessed another and was told the same thing. As she spotted a new contract appear, she accessed it and this time was able to read the description and offered price but was then informed for a third time that her abilities in selecting were wanting terribly. Hmph.

This continued for several frustrating minutes more. _Had I realized this was the hatchery for despondent bounty hunters_, she thought to herself, _I would have happily gone to another platform_.

Several times she had actually been able to place a bid but that hadn't mattered. It seemed her default price of 300,000 Yire was a king's ransom compared to what some of these bounty hunters were asking. Anyone with a default bid of under a hundred thousand Yire was almost guaranteed a job and the opposite was also true. But she wouldn't underbid someone if it meant _losing_ money on the operation; that was just ridiculous.

No wonder so many independent bounty hunters went belly up. They didn't even know how to conduct business. Well, she could set her default price a bit lower in order to bid more competitively but she knew there had to be a better way.

The pattern was clear: as soon as a bounty appeared, the starving hunters attacked it and started a bidding war that only benefited the contractor. Still, they couldn't catch _every_ bounty offered and if they spent all of their time going after the new ones, that had to mean any older bounties that had slipped by were less competitive. Her viewscreen filtered out all bounties less than a day old. Okay, now she was working with seventy. The only reason most of these were still active was because they were set on a time limit instead of a minimum bid limit, meaning their current bids were absurdly low. Twenty thousand Yire? Did these people have no shame?

Suddenly the girl spotted an active contract with a starting offer of 450,000 Yire and no bids. She quickly selected it to find out why.

**Contractor:** Dorl-Haitian Corp.  
**Contract Type:** Bid  
**Bounty Type**: Fugitive  
**Details:** Hidden. To be revealed upon approval.  
**Minimum Bid:** Hidden  
**Qualifications**:

Now this was where it became interesting. Under qualifications most bounties simply listed "_none_" and a few listed such things as "_ten missions on career_" or "._300 success rate_," but this one was different. Its parameters for application were "_N/A_ _success rate_" and "_preference given to greens_." No wonder it was still available. Still, there had something peculiar about this offer if the contractor had such specific requirements.

While the girl mulled over this, she saw someone bid on the contract at the given price. Frantically, she moved to place her own bid. She bid 400,000 and was immediately underbid at 300,000. The girl took a deep breath. 250,000 Yire was still fine payment for a green. Yes, 250,000 was perfectly acceptable. She placed her bid and was again immediately underbid, this time for 200,000. She cursed. 200,000 was barely better than breaking even. She couldn't go any lower without incurring a net loss. But then, neither could the other person.

The girl bid 150,000 in such a way that a cackle would not have been out of place, but waited calmly to be underbid once again. Instead, she was informed that she had made the minimum preset bid and been approved. She was supposed to meet with her contractor outside the entrance of the Fortuna Cafe in six hours to receive the details of the contract. Tardiness would be interpreted to mean she had changed her mind and they were to look elsewhere.

She cursed.

**

* * *

Grestch Platform of the Inner Lespe-IV Star System  
Docking Bay 17-B  
1035 GFST  
21-09-07 GFSD **

The girl sat in her ship thinking while the platform processed her vessel and automatically deducted a modest sum for the service of its existence. Had she been transporting any goods, the platform would also have checked the equilibrium price of her intended market and deducted a percentage of the expected revenue. It wasn't a tariff, of course, because those didn't exist these days and would have been reviled in the modern free market system, anyway. It was simply the price for ensuring that one's goods made it safely to their destination. If that destination was the platform itself, all the better. If that destination was another platform or colony, one was free to choose another route. There may not have been another place to dock or refuel within a couple of days travel, but one always had choices.

Besides making sure passengers arrived safely, the platform ensured its own safety by accessing ships' logs to find out where the vessels had come from, who they were registered to, and what their purpose at the platform was, as well as scanning for any malicious code that might be hidden within the other information.

The girl knew the platform's security would be in for a surprise when it checked her ship. There was no virus, of course, but the ship was owned by a person who existed only as a name, and the purpose given for docking was the vaguest possible in a galaxy obsessed with money: "business matters". The platform's security would surely be inquisitive about what that business was and probably also who she was, also. When she tried to enter the platform, she would have to provide them with an answer or push her way through, probably not the best way to be entered into their database, especially since she had other concerns.

She would have to meet with her employer face-to-face, and (having learned of this society's perception of Human females) it was likely they would regard her poorly because of her sex, despite her abilities and training. Possibly worse, they would regard her as a curious novelty, exceptional because of her gender, and still ignore these things.

Ah, but if her employer did not see a woman, or even a man, just a shell of cold metal, none of this would even be an issue. She had not had a reason to use the suit yet because she hadn't been on any official business yet; she hadn't needed to kill anything. Nevertheless, perhaps it had other, more important uses than killing. After all, when making a first impression, one should always put one's best foot forward.

She kept the suit near the bridge, freestanding. Unlike her it had _authority_.

The girl went to the suit and reappraised her people's parting gift. Really, it was the only thing of any worth she owned, so well crafted it was beyond price, one of those rare items whose aesthetic beauty was surpassed only by its effectiveness.

She lifted the vermilion helmet from its stand and set it aside.

The gleaming gold panels and red trim reflected even the minutest ambient light in the ship; the interlocking panels cast out rays of tinted light in myriad directions.

She said, "Open," in the language of her former people and the suit started unfolding. The back panels slid apart, retracting in to each other with a loud grinding whirr. The shoulder guards and red breastplate tilted forward, creating a passage for her to slide in to the suit. The arm and leg covers split in half, readying for her entry.

Taking a deep breath, the girl put her right foot forward and stepped into the boot. Feeling the leathery interior rub against her skin was always a bit disconcerting at first, but the sensation disappeared shortly, replaced by pleasant comfort. She slid her left foot in next, along with the rest of her body. Her right hand disappeared into the cannon that took up the suit's right forearm while the left fit into a perfectly crafted hand. Both, however, fit equally snug. The tank and shorts, on the other hand, never fit very flush with the suit reminding her for the umpteenth time she would need to obtain some clothing more suitable for internal contact. Finally, she poked her head up through the hole in the breastplate and the rubber gasket material came to rest on her neck.

She lifted her arms, pressing the breastplate into place. The electric latches caught each other, and a loud hiss erupted as the suit began the sealing process. Shiny yellow panels started interlocking with metallic clicks, the wing-like broad yellow shoulders clasping upon the backs of the arm plating. The suit tightened its grip around her body, becoming her metallic second skin rather than a mere shell. She flexed the fingers of her left hand, remaining ever appreciative of how the suit didn't get in the way of her instincts or natural motion, even if the wonderment about it was no longer there. Reaching to where she'd set it down previously, the girl picked up the helmet and firmly planted it upon the rubber gasket in the breastplate. As if it was gluing itself together, the seal quietly gripped the helmet with the incoming rush of pressurization. The helmet's electrical connectors quietly buzzed to life and the heads-up display flickered to life.

There was a feeling of god-like superiority inside the armor. Enveloped so, she was all-powerful — could punch through a solid wall, leap a dozen meters straight into the air, or fire a blast of destructive energy from her cannon. She was nearly omniscient, too. Between her HUD, visor's assorted amplifiers and filters, and internal processing unit, she knew everything. For example, right now she could look through the hull of her ship, focus on a pair of the people talking outside and know the details of their conversation. As she ran through a systems check, she did just that.

The girl located a couple of what her IPU identified as Oushans discussing whether or not it would be considered acceptable to go to their meeting dressed in traditional Oushanian attire. Then, if it wasn't, what style of Human attire should they adopt? Should they shake hands to show that they were intent on beginning a congenial relationship or give the customary salutatory cough to avoid looking like assimilationists?

For this she could just listen in, but even if something sound proof had been between her and the people, she could have known the same easily enough. She deactivated the auditory sensors and switched her focus to another set of people conversing, these Human. Using a combination of her HUD's light filters, she tracked the couple's lip movement and vocal cord stimulation, then had her IPU determine the words most likely formed with what inflection and intended meaning. For the time being, she also had it translate the words for her, although her Federation Standard was passable.

According to the translation, the male had returned from a business trip of some kind, and the female, noticing several bite marks on his neck, angrily questioned exactly _what kind of business_ it was. He, of course, vehemently denied this implication. The girl in the suit used her IPU to check his response against other scopes that tracked micro-expressions, pulse, body heat, and brain activity, all of which told her that he was most likely lying. The female in the conversation seemed to reach the same conclusion independently.

Her suit had one more important property, perhaps the most important of all. Inside her armor she was protected from all attacks, physically by the shock-absorbing energy shield that surrounded her, but in intangible ways as well. The added height and bulk made her an armored titan, giving her an imposing projection but an even more imposing attitude. She was inherently a dangerous creature, had been trained to be so for most of her life, but inside her suit she was absolutely lethal, and snugly so.

It felt normal to be covered only in fabric most of the time, but once she stepped into the powered suit, she realized she was little better than a snail left out of its shell, crawling around helplessly. But _this_ feeling was home. This feeling was good and right and natural.

And this would be how she would meet her employer.

* * *

The hatch of the ship, but one of several thousand vessels in the docks, opened and a short ramp extended until it touched the floor of the bay beneath. A girl dressed in a red and gold powered suit walked down the ramp and began to make her way toward the nearest gate that would give her access to the platform proper. As this was a particularly diverse platform located at the intersection of several major trading routes, it was rare to see more than two or three of the same species in one's vision. The platform was full of people, some coming, some going, some just standing around, but each oblivious to the person beside him.

The armored girl, over two meters in height, was something no one noticed, either, but somehow everyone drifted away from her path before she could bump into them. She moved forward deliberately and did not bother to slow down or step aside for anyone, confident to leave this responsibility to others.

The girl inside the armor felt a profound sense of satisfaction at this. No one had given her any respect for a very long time and that made this even sweeter. Her satisfaction was dimmed somewhat as she gained view of the access gate, and she realized what trouble she was going to be in. A small number of lightly-armed security guards and large number of scanning equipment trained themselves on each person in the single-file line as they stood before the gate, giving a series of low beeps to signal that scanning was still in process, then a single high-pitched beep to signal that scanning was complete and approval had been given for entry.

The line in front of her moved through quickly, efficiently, and it was not long before every scanner was pointed at her, attempting to determine her identity and estimate her threat level. Her suit had been well designed to protect against this, obscuring her identity and forcing the scanning A.I. to postulate what types of weapons she had, how many there were, and where they were located. The last issue was quite obvious due to her oversized cannon-forearm, but the rest would be almost impossible to properly classify. As more and more time went by, the line behind her became congested and grew much quieter until the rhythmic low beeping of the scanning could be heard over the muffled sounds of the crowd.

Bmm.

Bmm.

Bmm.

Bmm.

She noticed the security personnel were growing agitated now. They looked up at her to see what the problem was. The girl in the suit just stood where she was, awaiting the outcome. As nearly a minute crawled by, she saw the guards gingerly remove their weapons from their holsters and take the safeties off. So focused was she on this, she almost missed a small group of shock troopers in powered suits trot from inside the platform and stand on the other side of the gate.

One of the lightly armed guards, a Vadene, approached the girl in the suit. Her IPU scanned him and told her he was the highest-ranking officer present at moment. He spoke Standard, and her IPU detected no strong dialect.

"Excuse me sir, but we seem to be having some problems determining your identity due to that suit you're wearing. Normally powered exoskeletons aren't a problem, but it looks like we've got a few bugs. Very sorry for the wait you've had to go through. All the same, if you'd be so kind as to remove your helmet, we'll scan you directly so we can identify you. Then you and your suit can be entered into the database. After that we'll let you go on through and you won't have this problem again."

He tilted his head to one side as if listening to something.

"Also, we're going to need to take a look inside that ship of yours. We seem to be having some problems gathering some information from that, as well, so it looks like we'll have to do a physical search. Please give us a minute, and I'm sure we'll get all of this stuff taken care of, okay?"

The girl found her throat suddenly dry, and she had to swallow once before she could answer.

"No," she said, her voice faltering slightly throughout the single syllable. She silently cursed herself for this weakness, but the guards did not hear that voice. They heard the titan respond coldly, mechanically, defiant and resolute in tone.

The ranking guard frowned.

"There's no reason to turn into trouble, sir. Give us a few minutes of your time, and we can all go back to more pleasant things. Keep in mind that here at Grestch we take security very seriously, so maybe you should… _reconsider_ your answer."

"My answer is the same. I can't afford to waste any more time dealing with your nonsense. I have business to attend to inside."

"And what kind of business are you on, decked out in that—or do I need to guess?"

"I'm a bounty hunter and thereby granted the Federal right to go wherever necessary to capture my bounty."

"Is that right?" the Vadene guard said. "I'm no expert on Federal law, but since you seem to know so much, maybe you can explain to me why it's in our best interests to let an unidentified walking arsenal into our platform? If you think we enjoy the possibility of getting a couple of platform blocks blown to hell, you're sadly mistaken."

"My bounty isn't on Grestch. At least, I don't think he is," she faltered. "I have an appointment with my employer in a few minutes to find out the details."

"So you're not actually on a mission yet?"

She grimaced as she discovered she was being backed into a corner.

"Technically, no. Not yet."

"Then I'm _still_ going to have to ask you to remove your helmet and allow us inside your ship. If you'll check the wording of that particular Federal law you referenced previously, I think you'll find that if you haven't been granted the full contract, _technically_ we aren't required to let you in. So if you've got business to attend to, I'd suggest you do your part to help us get through all this as quickly and painlessly as possible, or else you're not getting in, period. You get what I'm saying?"

"Yes."

"So you going to take off your helmet?"

"No."

"Then thank you for visiting Grestch Platform, and I hope you have a _wonderful_ trip to wherever you plan to go next."

There was a moment of tense silence as everyone in the docks waited to see what the bounty hunter's reaction would be. A crowd had gathered around the scene, spectators as well as those who actually needed inside, and every guard had his finger on his weapon's release. The low beeping still had not ceased, but now it was the only sound that could be heard.

Bmm.

Bmm.

Bmm.

Bmm.

But the girl in the suit turned around and walked back toward her ship.

The crowd gave a collective sigh of relief and went back to their own business. The embarrassment of the scene would be remembered in passing by most as an interesting story to tell friends or family, but the girl was almost shaking with anger at her own incompetence. She had expected this, she should have made arrangements earlier, contacted her employer hours ago and asked them to meet her outside the platform so she wouldn't look like the unprepared green she obviously was. Instead, she appeared a fool and she would appear _more_ a fool when she told her contractors she would be late and they'd have to come to her. This was not going to make for a good impression. Her only consolation was that she had preserved the separation between her two identities, feminine and occupational, as was her primary concern. This was still salvageable.

She went inside her ship and made a call to the Fortuna Café. One of the workers answered and she told him to relay a message to her employer waiting outside of the café. It took a bit of goading, but her artificial voice seemed effective at making threats even when she didn't intend them. She just hoped the worker would remember what gate she'd told him she was at.

The girl went back outside and stood rigidly, watching an endless stream of people go by as she waited impatiently for her employer to arrive. She just wanted to get all of this over with so she could get into doing what she did best: hunt. She was a hunter, a killer, even if she'd never actually killed anyone yet. Negotiations and social subtleties weren't her specialty. If she could just get this over and done with, her legend could begin to spread in earnest.

"Samus Aran!" She looked up. "Samus Aran the bounty hunter! Where are you?"

Her IPU filtered the noise and located the source of voice amidst the crowd. It was a well-dressed Human, surrounded by a half dozen bodyguards in powered suits. The Human looked very angry, no doubt accustomed to employees obeying his every whim. Those failing in this regard would surely incur unimaginable wrath. She groaned, but the IPU proved its intelligence once again and did not translate the sound.

"I am Samus Aran," the girl announced in a calm but booming voice. She wasn't sure her suit had projected it loud enough, but soon the well-dressed man and his entourage turned and headed her way. The guards parted and the Human walked up to her, glowering threateningly as he started to yell, even though the size disparity between them was laughable.

"What kind of a bounty hunter do you think you are? You don't just change the location of the meeting at the last minute."

"I apologize."

"You what?"

"I apologize. I had some trouble getting into the platform, so I asked if you would meet me out here instead so that I could take your bounty. I understand that this is not good form to start out our relationship. What would you like me to do?

"I'd like you to start acting like a _professional_, but since you're obviously not, I don't see any reason to pretend to treat you like one. We already agreed on the payment so there is nothing I can do about that. You'll get twenty-five percent now, the rest upon delivery."

"I believe it would significantly help my ability to do my job if I had the standard fifty percent so that I can cover any unexpected costs."

"I don't _believe_ it's going to matter because I _believe_ you're an incompetent green, and you've done nothing up to this point to give me faith in the contrary."

Samus gritted her teeth but said nothing. He handed her a disc, and she placed it in one of her suit's storage pockets.

"All of this is on there but I just want to go over the main points to make sure you understand, or at least understand as well as you can.

"The bounty is Wade Andrews. He was part of a research team owned by the corporation I represent. A few days ago, he made a copy of some of our data and fled. He was off of our platform before we realized anything was stolen and went to Gantil Orbital Platform, part of a league we're associated with, but unfortunately not exclusively. Doubtlessly he has moved on since then, but we have no idea where to. We questioned Andrews's wife but apparently he had left her in the dark about the whole thing, too. While we don't know exactly what he plans to do with the information, it's a safe bet he's going to sell it to one of our rivals. At the present time we have reason to believe we're in the lead, but if someone gets our data and completes theirs first, we'll have to swallow a loss of hundreds of billions in research and lobbying."

"If it's so important to you, why hire a green? You could have hired a top white class bounty hunter for reasonable Yire and been assured success. Or even used one of your own people."

"We could have done that? _Really_? I guess you're more astute than I gave you credit for. Well, thanks for the advice; there's no reason to involve you now." He rolled his eyes. "First of all, Andrews is a civilian with no military training and no criminal record. He's not a _professional_ fugitive, so any bounty hunter with half a brain should have no problem tracking him down. Second, we would obviously like to handle this in-house and use our own people but things happen to even the best, and we do _not_ want it getting back to us. Someone on our regular payroll isn't an option. Third, you don't need to know what our research involved, but in the event that this all turns out badly and you do find out, we would rather our potential witnesses have questionable credibility."

"I see."

"I wonder if you do. In any case, please show us you're a smart boy from here on, eh?" The Human representative started walking away into the middle of his bodyguards when he looked over his shoulder and noticed she was standing there with her hand out. "What?" he asked, "Do you need something else?"

"I need my money."

"Here," he said and tapped one of the guards. The guard handed her a worn out Fisk displaying 35,000 Yire in the corners. "Don't disappoint," the Human said, "While we may not be able to get our hands dirty with a researcher, a bounty hunter is a different story. Fuck this up and you may not get a _chance_ to redeem yourself."

"Don't threaten me," Samus said.

"Or what?"

She shoved two of the guards out of the way like they were wads of paper and pressed her cannon into the Human's forehead. His armored protectors had been caught off guard, but quickly recovered and each pointed his own weapon at her head. Secretly, she was cursing herself for doing something so impulsive but her armored shell gave the appearance of being resolute.

The Human was unfazed.

"So you've got a pair, do you? Good. I like that in a hunter." He addressed his bodyguards, "Disarm your weapons, and I'm sure this fine gentleman will do the same."

They did, and after another tense moment she did as well.

"Perhaps I was out of line there. Threatening someone you're paying isn't good form for the beginning of a relationship either, and you readily pointed that out to me. But the threat won't be an issue because you're going to catch Andrews, recover the disc, and get paid the rest, right? Who knows? If this works out for you, you may even have a regular job with us."

Samus didn't respond, and instead she turned around and walked into her ship. The Human representative and armed guards stood where they were a moment longer, perhaps a matter of saving face. The girl kept her IPU trained on them, attempting to eavesdrop on whatever conversation they might have among themselves. But they said nothing and merely retreated back into the platform, beyond the gates and eventually, beyond her ability to track them.

Well, that could have gone better, but at least she'd gotten some money and respect out of it.

She checked her ship and saw that it had finished refueling. Good. Gantil Platform was not that far away. She could reach it in a couple of hours, which, luckily, would give her ample time to study the bounty information.

It was all going according to plan.

* * *

**~See You Next Mission~

* * *

**

You greet the world with arms wide open, but all it takes is one shot to the gut to make you double over and cover up for good. Keep a look out, over the shoulder and on each side, 'cause the blind side is where you're blind, and everybody knows it. But sometimes trouble can come at you from the front, and you gotta face it head on or turn tail and run. And no matter what happens, you gotta keep your head up high and keep plodding forward, 'cause once you stop, it's all over. Dig?

**Next Episode**: Green, part two

* * *

**Authors' Notes:**

**Insomniac By Choice**: Yes, that is punctuated properly. It's a plural possessive. _See You Next Mission_ is a work co-authored by myself and the esteemed KefkaFloyd (compare his user id and earliest story published to your own, I dare you). As co-authors, we'll alternate between primary and secondary author duties, and hopefully each bring our own strengths to the table, while balancing out the others' weaknesses.

**KefkaFloyd**: SYNM was envisioned as a different way (for a fanfic, at least) of bridging a gap. We decided that we wanted to do an episodic format, of many short stories linked together to form a cohesive whole. This is probably familiar to anyone reading it – serial television or movies or novels work in the same way. These episodes wouldn't always be from Samus's point of view, but they would always involve her in some way. It's a way to help create a world, something Metroid is severely lacking (mostly due to the nature of the games, though Prime expanded on this significantly).

**IBC**: What we're trying to do here is basically write stories about Samus. I mean, I don't know if you can say it anymore simply than that. We're trying to write stories that show an unbiased portrait of who Samus is, and that means we can't just follow her to do it. In the first two episodes and several later on, it's necessary to see it from Samus's point of view, but overall what we're going to do is show Samus's place in the universe, and what that universe is. We're used to the idea of Samus catching bounties or destroying property, and we think nothing of it. But someone has to hire her, someone has to be caught, someone has to be left footing the bill for the building she demolished, someone has to watch her do it. A lot of people have told stories of what these events mean to Samus and we're going to tell our own, but everyone has a story to tell and we're trying to give a voice to the voiceless so that in the process we'll get a better understanding of Samus Aran.

**KF**: This series probably isn't for everyone. To streamline the stories a bit (and minimize the repetition of the world building) we decided to utilize an appendix. The appendix is meant to enhance your understanding of the story. It's meant as reference material for how the world we've structured works, both as for ourselves and for you. If there's something you don't understand, odds are the appendix explains it. Everything is done on purpose or for a reason. We aren't leaving things to chance.

**IBC**: I know I'm speaking for Kefka when I say this, but he has the humility and forethought not to, so I'll be the one to do it. We promise you that no matter what, we will not settle for popular mediocrity with this thing. We like reviews and readership, but ultimately that's not an excuse to give the people what they want at the expense of the series' integrity. It may be delusional, but we are doing our best to create the _best fanfiction of all time_, something that will be able to stand up on its own as a work of literary greatness and not just another piece of mindless, popular entertainment. Failing that, we're at least going to give you a bunch of damn good Metroid stories, written well.

**KF**: I hope you enjoy this story as much as we have writing it. Though there is definitely a beginning, middle, and end to this work, each episode can be consumed and enjoyed on its own merits. We're going to enjoy the ride, come along with us and do the same.


	3. Episode 2: Green, part two

_Episode: Green Part 2  
Primary author: Insomniac By Choice  
Secondary author: KefkaFloyd_

* * *

**Dimun Platform of the Extra-Almoth Star System  
Common Docking Bay  
1729 GFST  
23-09-07 GFSD  
Two Days Later**

She was not happy.

Samus Aran had arrived at Dimun by way of Gantil without any problems, relatively hot on the heels of her bounty. She knew his bio and tendencies by memory and had good reason to believe this was where he was. When she'd consulted her IPU's probability analysis, it had told her there was almost a 73 percent chance that this was where Andrews had come. Sitting in her chair, staring through the hull of her ship into the docks before her, her HUD displaying every conceivable item of information about the platform and its denizens, Samus was sure her bounty was here. She just wasn't sure _she_ wanted to be.

The scene on the docks of Dimun platform was a far cry from that of any space platform she'd been to before. While others had certainly been loud and chaotic, there had been something civil about them. They weren't organized, per se, but each person there had acted as if they were abiding by some unwritten code of conduct they all knew.

Dimun platform, on the other hand, appeared to have _no_ code of conduct, unwritten or otherwise. Men, surly and intoxicated, courted women, promiscuous by occupation, while other Humans and races cursed and brawled with one another over matters perhaps not even they could recall. The quality of maintenance for Dimun was visibly inferior, as well. So many pipes were leaking and ruptured that Samus began to have doubts about the platform's safety. She wondered when the last time any real renovations had taken place

The dock guards leaned against the walls by the gate and talked among themselves, ignoring all of the people who passed through the entrances. Of course they did, Samus realized; this was a liberty platform.

Liberty platforms called privacy an inalienable right. No one was ever scanned, so naturally those barred access from secure fiefdoms congregated on places like these, using them for shelter from the fines they were supposed to serve.

The inhabitants of liberty platforms therefore _expected_ a certain level of lawlessness, even protection from the power of the law. (Samus's IPU clarified that Dimun platform _did_ harshly punish violent crimes with trillion Yire fines—even more than most secure platforms might—but as expected turned a blind eye to less severe ones like theft or unlicensed reproduction.)

But like all liberty platforms, Dimun hated bounty hunters and all of the trouble they caused. Even if Federal law and their own open policies guaranteed that all bounty hunters would be allowed in, liberty platforms had good reason to want to keep hunters out. Bounty hunters did nothing but cause trouble and decrease profit. Fugitives didn't want to come to a place if they knew bounty hunters were there waiting, meaning fugitives didn't come in and spend money. Damaged property could be repaired, but a tarnished reputation lingered.

Restraint was not one of Samus's virtues, and she knew that if she got into a firefight she had the capacity to destroy several platform blocks. But that was only assuming she could _find_ her bounty, something she was increasingly uncertain she would be able to do. Her training had not specifically covered such a situation but it had prepared her to deal with novel ones when they arrived. Supposedly. She had no idea where Andrews would go from here and her IPU admitted that it could make no accurate prediction, but she _was_ certain that wherever he was going, he wasn't on his way yet.

She had made up for lost time and arrived at Dimun only thirty minutes later than the ship Andrews was on. That meant he had time to go just about anywhere on the platform until the next ship left, but her IPU informed her that no ships were departing for another five hours. She had at least that long to track him down. There were only about a hundred and fifty thousand residents and thirty thousand travelers currently on the platform. How hard could it be?

She cursed. Yes, she _had_ arrived thirty minutes behind Andrews but then she had spent the last ten minutes sitting in her suit, in her ship, watching the people and checking her IPU's analysis of the likelihood of various hypothetical scenarios.

There was a 32.33 (repeating of course) percent probability that Andrews was holed-up "somewhere". Such a vague analysis didn't help much, but it was the largest such percentage out of the given possibilities. Bah, this was maddening. Nothing was happening. All she was doing was sitting on her ass thinking, and that did no good.

But, Samus reminded herself absentmindedly, it was better to move slowly with rightness than quickly in error.

She cursed as she remembered the source of the words: a surrogate father who had rebuked her with it nearly every day he had been with her. Why did those stupid proverbs come to her in times like these? Her former keepers had poisoned her mind with such trite advice and despite all of her attempts to the contrary, she couldn't free herself of their touch. Fine. If their advice would be to do nothing, she would _act_.

* * *

**Dimun Platform of the Extra-Almoth Star System  
The Soaring Weasel  
2102 GFST  
23-09-07 GFSD**

It was a quiet day in the Soaring Weasel, and bartender Woody Malone liked quiet days. Not quiet audibly, though that was part of it. Woody liked days that didn't feel hectic or rushed, where time could flow calmly from moment to moment, uninterrupted. Conversation could be spoken in a murmur indecipherable except to those in it, in a congenial tone no different whether the participants were friends since childhood or two strangers who had met half a minute before.

He enjoyed being able to talk with regular patrons and those just passing through, hearing about their lives and being the welcoming ear without having to worry that he wasn't serving someone.

It was a quiet day in the Soaring Weasel, and all signs pointed that it would continue to be.

Then _he_ came in.

The man entered with a crash, disrupting the sluggish mood of the bar. Everyone in the bar turned their eyes to the intruder, then to the door, then to the entrance, and finally back to the intruder, who was still standing at the entrance, holding by a knob the door no longer part of the entrance.

Patrons would have searched the man's face for an explanation, but it—and in fact his entire body—was hidden from view under a large powered exoskeleton, so they waited in communal silence for the stranger's next move.

Half a minute later, the stalemate was broken. The man let go of the knob, and the corner of the door struck the ground.

thwonk

A second later, so did the rest of it.

THWONK

Attempting to avoid the stares still locked on him, the man in the powered suit shuffled over to the counter and sat down at a stool. Gradually the private conversations returned, and the bar was as it had been, the metal man all but ignored.

Woody, who had also witnessed the odd arrival, smiled and strolled over to the metal man as though he actually liked a fellow like this in his bar.

Even though the man _carried_ no visible weapons, he was obviously a threat. His right forearm was completely taken up by a large cannon, proving that this was a suit designed with violence on the mind and little else.

There were some bouncers on hand but Woody wasn't sure if they had the equipment to handle a guy like this. If they did, they probably wouldn't be able to get him out without first tearing up half of the building, and people.

The man in the powered suit pulled a Fisk out of a newly-open compartment near his waist and flung it across the counter.

Woody caught it and read the display. Seven thousand Yire? Pfft. Not even worth trying to haggle. Best to just try the diplomatic approach and get the guy out as quickly as possible.

"I'm sorry, sir," Woody said, "all we sell is drinks downstairs and rooms upstairs. I'm afraid I can't help you."

"What do you mean?" the man said in a mechanical monotone. "I just want something to drink."

"Look, I don't want any trouble. It's obvious you're a bounty hunter. We make it a policy not to harbor any bounties in our establishment. And even if it wasn't a policy, I wouldn't tell you about any of them. Not for Yire like this, anyway."

The man in the powered suit swiveled slowly in his seat and looked at some of the other customers then laughed in the same dry artificial voice as he spun back around.

"If I wanted to or thought I could fit them all into my ship, I'm sure I could get a small fortune rounding up all of the people in here. But I don't want to. I just want a drink." He paused where a sigh should have been. "Shallah, it's been a long day."

Woody reappraised the stranger. The guy _did_ look pretty worn out. The man probably wouldn't cause much trouble. Might as well make the effort to serve him. Yire was Yire, no matter who the source.

"You know, part of my job's duties is listening to people talk about their long days so if you really just want a drink, I'm obligated to ask you to tell me about it."

"Is that so?" the man said. "I don't have any use for idle chatter, so I couldn't care less about that part of your duties, but I _am_ thirsty. Give me a suggestion."

"What are you looking for?"

"Something tasty with a bite to it, preferably on the cheaper side."

"Swirling Abyss with Cherry sound all right?"

"Sounds perfect."

"That'll be 3,000 Yire."

"It sounds a little less than perfect now, but go ahead."

Woody transferred the agreed Yire from the hunter's Fisk to one of the bar's Fisks and tried to hand it back. The man didn't take the card right away so Woody just left it on the countertop. He pulled the properly labeled bottle off of the shelf, poured some of the drink into a clean glass, and slid it across.

Woody didn't realize it, but apparently he had been staring for some time because the man said, "What are you looking at?"

"I'm just trying to figure out how you're going to drink anything without taking _something_ off. Do you open your visor and drink through that or what?"

The stranger didn't answer at first and instead placed his armored hand over the top of the glass. A clear tube extended in to the glass and began to suck the liquid up into itself.

"When I have to go to a location with a hazardous environment for prolonged periods of time, it's possible that I may need something to drink," the stranger explained in a ruthlessly condescendingly manner. "This way, I don't have to choose between committing suicide by exposing myself to that environment, and slowly dying of thirst."

"Oh." Woody couldn't think of anything to say for a while so he stood where he was, drying off a couple of wet glasses while he tried to think of a topic starter. "So go ahead, stranger. What are your troubles?"

"Right now? A nosy bartender who doesn't know he ought to serve me a drink and keep his mouth shut."

Woody shrugged and started off to tidy up a few things. The bastard's money was already spent. The asshole could drink however he liked after that.

"I… apologize," the bounty hunter said suddenly, "I'm not accustomed to being around Humans and Human conventions, so sometimes I know I come off a little bad tempered or direct my frustrations where they oughtn't go. My recent experiences with this society have proven… disappointing." He paused. "Yes, I suppose I might as well tell you. As you guessed, I'm a bounty hunter. I came here in pursuit of a bounty, and I don't think I will be able to find him. And not only was I paid less for this job than I should have been, I was given less up front, as well. My stockpile of Yire is running low, and if I don't make some money, I must admit I don't know what I'll do."

"So what are you doing here buying drinks if you don't have money to spend?"

"Hmph. That's a very good question." Again the bounty hunter was silent. "I suppose I'll soon be poor regardless of what I do so I might as well indulge myself while I still can. Flawed reasoning, I know, but that's all I've had lately."

"Hey, if flawed reasoning gets you to the right answer—and ordering another drink is always the right answer —that's better than perfect reasoning that ends up wrong, I say."

"So you do. But if one gets used to thinking the wrong way because there are beneficial results in the short term, one will find himself worse for it in the long term."

"Well then you shouldn't have a problem in that department. You seem to have it all figured out."

"I wish. If I did, I would know what I'm supposed to do now."

"I could give you advice, but for that you'd have to order another drink."

"Fine, fine. But get me something else. I taste the cherry in this plainly enough but the swirling abyss is noticeably absent. I asked for something strong; a fledgling would consider this to be mild juice."

Woody laughed and fetched something stronger for the bounty hunter. This wasn't such a bad guy after all. It was actually enjoyable to talk to him. Woody used the same Fisk as before, still on the counter, and subtracted twenty-five hundred then handed it and the bottle over. This time the hunter reached and took both, placing the Fisk back in its compartment and eventually taking the top off of the bottle.

"It doesn't taste like much," Woody informed him, "but it will peel the paint off that armor if you spill it."

The bounty hunter didn't respond but in his own way, the man took a sip.

"Indeed." He took another drink, this one a gulp. "_Indeed._ Well go ahead, good sir; start advising."

"I'll need some more specifics if you want me to do that. Unless, of course, you want bad advice, in which case I'd suggest you start standing on your head. Immediately."

"I see now why this place is so busy. Where else in the Federation can you find such a sage?" the bounty hunter said in bone-dry sarcasm. "Two days ago, I received my contract. I started several days behind my bounty, but I made up a great deal of time on my way to his first stop, Gantil platform. When I arrived there, I was almost seventeen hours behind him. Luckily, he traveled on a commercial ship and I used my own so I wasn't forced to go across to the other side of the platform to leave or to wait for a departing flight to be scheduled. I then used my Federal rights and checked Gantil's records. They logged my bounty coming to them then leaving eight hours later, however no other fiefdom had him registered coming onto theirs… I'm boring you aren't I?"

"Not at all. I've had to listen to the stories of a lot of bounty hunters over the years here and at other bars but they usually talk about blowing something up or some kind of high-speed chase. After a while it gets a bit silly and as odd as this may sound, the tedious details actually get much more interesting," Woody stopped and smiled. "That, and I'm paid to be interested in whatever you're talking about."

"Somehow I find the latter much more likely. But as I was saying, since Gantil registered him leaving and no one else had him registered coming to them, I knew he was either going to a liberty platform or a rural colony.

"Gantil is a fairly respectable fiefdom and only trades with five liberty platforms and one rural colony. Three of the liberty platforms and the rural colony have stopovers on secure fiefdoms. I knew these secure fiefdoms would register him coming onto theirs if he was passing through them, and as I said, he wasn't listed on any of them.

"All that left was Carnicero and Dimun platforms. This one had a higher probability so here I am. From what I understand, Carnicero Platform is a haven for murderers, rapists, and Federal fugitives, so if my target went there, there wouldn't be a bounty to collect by the time I caught up to him, anyway.

"At last I reached Dimun, but I discovered a new problem: I'd made up all but a half hour on my bounty, and I knew he wouldn't be going anywhere for at least five hours until his next flight, but I had no idea where he was on this platform. That was about three and one half hours ago, and I still don't."

"Ah. You a green, by any chance?"

A tense silence followed as Woody realized he'd hit one of the bounty hunter's sensitive spots.

"I'm an independent," the hunter said in his typically neutral tone, though this time with the faint traces of rising anger.

"Don't get mad; don't get mad, I was just asking. See, from time to time I get a wet behind the ears hunter who comes in here sounding a lot like you. Liberty platforms tend to send most bounty hunters for a loop the first time around and Dimun is no exception."

"I'm not most bounty hunters."

"Of course you're not. But you do seem to be suffering from a rather common malady of your profession."

"What is that? Bad luck?"

"I should hope not, otherwise you won't last long at all. My diagnosis would be just the opposite, in fact: a lack of experience. A number of hunters have told me that as a bounty hunter —and probably any other occupation for that matter—you have two things and two things only: experience and luck. You start out with none of one and all of the other. The secret to success is to get all of your experience before your luck runs out. If you're already running into bad luck now, I'm afraid you'll never make it."

"So what's your advice, then? Get luckier?"

"Well—and this is just someone else's technique I'm passing along—you might try waiting at bottlenecks to give you the best shot at running across him. Here, that would be the departing docks, I guess. Of course even then you'd have to be pretty lucky to spot him. Unless," Woody added in a sarcastic afterthought, "you know some way to scan a few thousand people in a moving crowd in a place that makes a point to have no surveillance."

"Hmm."

"But outside of that—and getting lucky—your best bet would probably be talking to the platform guards and seeing if they know anything about your guy. You'll have to grease their palms a bit, but you can usually haggle them down to a reasonable fee. You said the next flight out of here is in what, an hour now? It's probably too late to get over there if he's leaving on that one but if he's leaving later, you could just make sure you're there whenever the flights start to board and look for him yourself when they aren't. Talk to guards to help you narrow your search and, as always, hope you get lucky. Do that and you'll have all of the procedural knowledge a white-class hunter does."

Woody expected the bounty hunter to be thankful for such good advice but instead the man managed to look even _more_ dejected.

"What's the matter?" Woody asked.

"That… advice is sound, I admit, but neither one helps me much right now."

"What, don't you have any money to spread around?"

"It's not that— well, yes, that's part of it. I…had some problems with the platform guards on my way over here."

"Problems? If you're on a liberty platform, they're the best resource you have at locating a bounty. I told you that."

"That's what they told me, as well. But I had my doubts and they wanted too much money for their services. I told them no, and they told me to leave."

"So? It's not like they're going to do anything, especially not to a guy dressed up like you."

"I realize that… now. However, at the time I was frustrated with my own failures up to that point and their attitudes toward me. They thought they could take advantage of me. Push me around. And I was tired of being pushed around. So I pushed back."

"What exactly did you do?"

"I broke one guard's nose when I meant only to thump his helmet. I misaligned several upper vertebrae in another, though again I actually struck him harder than I'd intended. The other two I knocked out with a non-lethal shot from the weapon you see on my forearm."

"I'll say you pushed back."

"It was a mistake and I realized that immediately after I'd done it but… I shouldn't have done it. There's no excuse."

"You're new. Everyone makes mistakes their first time out. Survive them, live with them, learn from them."

"Unfortunately, these mistakes have cost me my bounty, this time. I can't wait at the docks because if I did, I'm sure guards would eventually spot me and attempt to take me into custody. And, even if I should manage to capture Andrews, I couldn't get him back to my ship without calling a great deal of attention to myself."

"Yeah, that's really too bad. You've definitely got yourself in quite a bind," Woody said in an interested, but casual manner. He glanced at his watch. "Do you need anything else, sir? As much as I've enjoyed this conversation, we're understaffed so I've got some wake-up calls I need to make so people won't miss their flights."

"Don't move," the bounty hunter ordered.

"What?"

"I said don't move. When I mentioned Andrews a moment ago, you reacted. Your pulse, especially. Now you suddenly need to leave. You know something about him."

"Sorry, what was his name again? Anderson?"

"Andrews. Wade Andrews."

"You know, the name sounds _kind of_ familiar, but I really don't—"

"You're lying. I can see it in your face, and I hear it in your voice. I don't like it when people lie to me. You're going to tell me the truth. Tell me now or… I'll start breaking bones."

Woody had already backed away from the counter and now held his hands up in a sign of surrender. Out of the corner of his eye, Woody saw two bouncers coming up behind the bounty hunter. One was wearing powered gauntlets while the other had an (illegally) modified stun rod. Woody just had to keep the bounty hunter distracted for a little while longer.

"You're right. Wade Andrews came by here earlier today—"

Quicker than Woody could follow, the bounty hunter fired two shots. More impressive than the speed was that he fired the shots without turning around, one under his left arm and the other behind his head. And more impressive than either of these, both shots struck their targets directly in the chest, dropping the two bouncers on contact.

"Why did you stop?" the hunter asked, malevolently, "Tell me more."

"He's upstairs," Woody said immediately, "The third floor, room 12-C."

The hunter nodded and stood up.

"Please…don't break anything," Woody pleaded.

The bounty hunter looked back at Woody and even though his face was hidden behind the impenetrable visor, Woody knew the man was smiling.

* * *

Samus Aran bounded up the stairs quickly and eagerly. But this was just business, nothing more. There was no reason for her to get excited over a simple bounty and she made an effort to subdue her excitement. Andrews would be just the first of many in a long career of successful contracts.

She reached the second floor and continued upwards.

Those Yire would definitely come in handy in getting her through the rough times until she landed her next job. Most of it would probably have to be spent on fuel and maintenance but she could set aside enough in her food budget to let her eat more than Yemen Insta-Noodles.

Samus reached the third floor and had her IPU start scanning room numbers and bodies. It soon located room 12-C and a Human matching Wade Andrews' appearance—tall and pudgy, brown eyes and thinning hair, with eighteen of the nineteen major facial characteristics corresponding—who was placing items into a bag. His heart rate was very high. Had someone tipped him off about her arrival or was he just jumpy? She slowed to walk down the hall, attempting to take a quiet approach. It didn't work. Andrews' head jerked up to look in her direction, and he pulled something out of his bag. Her IPU identified the object as a Type IX concussion rifle. That was pretty heavy hardware, especially at close range. It wouldn't kill her but her shield probably wouldn't be able to stop all of it so it wouldn't be a good idea to just charge in. What other options did that leave? Hmm.

She knocked on the door and immediately moved far to the side.

"Mr. Andrews. If you will surrender peaceably—"

As expected, her bounty didn't wait to hear the rest of her offer and instead fired the rifle, blowing the door and much of the surrounding wall to splinters, but missing her completely. She grinned as she took a step away from a section of the wall that was still intact then leapt through it. She caught him by surprise and Andrews couldn't swing the rifle into place before she aimed and fired her cannon into him. It was a very weak shot, doing little more than knocking him out for a few seconds. But that was all that was required. He dropped his weapon and crumpled to floor, harmless.

She shook him roughly with her foot until he regained consciousness, then took a step back, keeping her cannon aimed at his chest. For a moment he looked disoriented, but he quickly remembered the situation and began to reach for his rifle.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you Mr. Andrews," she warned, waving her cannon to catch his attention, "not if you would like to get out of this room alive."

He considered her words and, eyeing her warily, put his hands flat on the floor in a show of capitulation.

"So you're not going to kill me," the bounty said, attempting to hide the fear in his voice—and failing. "That depends on whether or not you co-operate. If you do, you and I will go back to Grestch platform, peacefully. Then I will hand you over to the Dorl-Haitian Corporation and get my pay, and you'll get your own reward for stealing their research."

"'Stealing'? I didn't _steal_ anything. For fuck's sake, it's my own research, how could I steal it?" he exclaimed, suddenly quite animated.

"Don't try to—" Samus paused and directed her IPU to analyze his answer. He was nervous, his heart was still beating rapidly and he was sweating profusely, but he wasn't lying. He wasn't lying? That couldn't be right. Her IPU confirmed with secondary checks that he had told the truth. "If that's true, Andrews, then why did Dorl-Haitian place a bounty on your head?"

"I don't know, they wanted it for themselves I guess. They'd come by a couple of times before, demanding that I hand it over, but I wouldn't. My team and I were in agreement on that. We didn't work our asses off just so someone else could take our research and use it without any of our input."

"Very noble of you. But you didn't run from them because of that. You've been on the run for days. The bounty wasn't activated until a short time after you fled Grestch meaning _you_ provoked _them_."

"No, I just took what was rightfully mine before those people could misuse it for themselves."

"And the concussion rifle? You didn't hesitate to try to kill me with it."

" …I thought you'd been sent here to kill _me_."

"I'm not. It isn't part of the contract. I'm supposed to retrieve you and the disc you have hidden in your breast pocket." She felt some satisfaction seeing his surprise. "However after I do that, what happens to you is none of my business, nor is it my concern."

"What kind of a man are you? You're telling me you don't have a problem with taking me back to people who are going to _execute me _as punishment over something they had no right to have in the first place?"

"You will be fine. You're too valuable to them. Likely, they will just ask you to continue work on your project for them or something similar they need your expertise on, and forgive this indiscretion. As long as you can ignore your conscience and nobility, you should be able to go back to a happy life, spending your days of leisure with your wife. If you ever have a problem with your nobility again, just think of her."

"You bastard!" Andrews screamed, tears welling up in his eyes. "Don't you dare make jokes at her expense."

"What?"

"Do you get some kind of sadistic pleasure out of torturing me because I just have to lay here and listen? Is that what it is?"

"No. What? What are you talking about?"

"You're the dog of the same people that—!" he stopped a moment to compose himself. "They killed her. All right? They tried to interrogate her to find out where I'd gone but she didn't know anything...so they just kept going. I-I tried to protect her by keeping her out of it but… but the corporation killed her anyway trying to find out. One of my assistants found out about it and told me but eventually they grabbed him, too. I haven't heard from any of them since I left Gantil. I don't know what's happening to my team once they get captured, but I know they aren't just going to 'put us back to work'."

Samus had her IPU running at its highest capacity trying to detect any lies in what he was telling her but it hadn't found any. Of course it hadn't found any when the negotiator for the Dorl-Haitian Corporation had talked to her, either. Maybe her suit's designers weren't as knowledgeable in this department as they thought. So which to trust?

She found herself believing Wade. The outburst about his wife sealed it. Something had seemed amiss from the beginning, and she'd never trusted her employers, especially that negotiator.

"This isn't what they told me at all," Samus informed Andrews, "I don't know how, but they lied to me. That makes them in breach of their contract and it means I don't have to follow it."

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying I don't have to complete this bounty. I'm not obligated to catch you if I was employed under false terms. It automatically nullifies the contact."

"Then you mean—"

"Yes, you're free to go. I'm not going to have an innocent man's blood on my hands, not for a lie and not over money. If you come with me, we can get you out of here and to safety."

She turned and went to look out the window for an easily accessible exit. Almost as soon as she did, her IPU warned her that she was in danger. She turned back around and began to dodge to the side but it was too late. Andrews had the concussion rifle in his hands, and he'd caught her completely off guard. He pulled the trigger, and Samus felt someone drop a mountain on her face and chest. She blacked out for a moment—or perhaps her suit did—but immediately regained her senses. She was sitting down with her back to the only part of the wall that hadn't been blown away; her exoskeleton and body had shielded it. Her visual display and HUD came back online shortly after. The first image she saw was Andrews sitting on the ground, holding his smoking gun, and smiling.

"Do you think I'm an idiot?" he said, panting. "Do you think that _absurd_ act of sympathy is going to fool me into going along with you? But don't worry, one of these days those sons of bitches paying you will join you in hell. I'll see to it."

She growled and increased the power on her cannon. As the end of it began to light up, Andrews' smile dropped, and he tried to fire his weapon again. Before he could, the beam struck him in the chest and knocked him over onto his back. Samus stood up and shook off the thunderous pain in her head, devoting a string of curses to her bounty as she did. First, for sucking her in with all of that ridiculous sob story, then for _trying to shoot her from behind_. He was lucky she hadn't killed him for it.

Samus stepped over to him and waited impatiently for him to wake back up. She had really screwed up, but she still had to get him back to her ship with the disc so that she could consider this a success and get paid. Yire would go a long way in easing the shame of her blunders. Now if the shalgot would just wake-up…

If he'd just wake up.

Wake up.

Wake up!

Her IPU scanned his vitals. His heart was still stopped, and he wasn't breathing.

Her IPU had no suggestions. Samus's mind raced to try to think of something. There were no health problems listed in his information that would suggest he have this kind of reaction from such low power. Of course combined with the previous blast, a man of his age with heart problems might… But her IPU hadn't warned her about that. What was she to do? Her IPU wasn't suggesting anything. Maybe if she shot him again? Maybe it would restart his heart. Yes, that was sure to do it.

Samus fired another low power blast from her beam cannon and waited to see the effect. His pulse came back for a moment, then it was gone again. No, this had to be the way! She fired again with the same results. Again. Again. Again. Again. Again.

She picked up his limp body by the front of his shirt and held him up to her face.

"Shalgot!" she screamed. "You cannot do this to me, not after what I had to do to get here!"

She finally noticed her HUD alerting her of the presence of other people, and she turned to see half a dozen people clustered outside of the room, watching her in shock. She checked her IPU and saw that they'd only arrived within the past twenty seconds. She looked back at the corpse in her hand, now smoking from all of the shots it had received, and realized what it must have looked like.

"This isn't what you think. I didn't mean to—" Samus stammered. "He shot me and I —"

She needed to get the disc and get out of here before it was too late. She reached into his pocket and pulled it out. The people still stood where they had been. In their presence, Samus felt guilty, but she didn't even know what she guilty of…

She needed to get out of here quickly.

Samus took a step toward the remnants of the room's door. The crowd scattered.

* * *

**Dimun Platform of the Extra-Almoth Star System  
Common Docking Bay  
2325 GFST  
23-09-07 GFSD**

She was not happy.

Samus Aran had just returned to her ship from a poorly executed bounty run, but she had made it back. Either she had been able to evade security or they had been content to just ignore her so she could leave. A small victory.

Whoo hoo.

Tired and jolted by occasional stabs of pain from the events of her long day, the only thing she wished to do was to get out of the suit and go to sleep… but not yet. There was bad news that had to be delivered before she could do that, and she was the lucky one who got to be the messenger.

Her hand twirled across a control panel; the gesture commanding the machinery to lower the communication viewscreen. With the screen lowered, she was free to command it.

"Connect to stored channel number eight. Authorization code two-five-oh-six."

The information disc the Dorl-Haitian negotiator had given her included a response channel to speak directly to him when she had completed her contract. She had wondered how they would be able to communicate with one another effectively considering the substantial lag time it took to bounce a message from Dimun to Grestch. From that distance, it would probably take a few hours just to connect. To her surprise, the connection status information stayed on the screen for just a few seconds, then the same unpleasant visage from the other day popped on to the screen to replace it.

"Samus Aran."

"Yes."

"If you're talking to me, I trust you _have_ achieved the objectives set by our contract?" If nothing else, he was to the point. He also had to be close. Waves could move through subspace without distortion much more quickly than physical matter, but there had been no delay in that exchange. _She_ had a sizeable delay in her own response, though, so much so that he repeated his question, "Well? Did you complete the contract?"

"…No."

"What?" He was visibly outraged and leaned forward aggressively. But this only lasted a split second, and quickly sat back and regained his composure, "Okay. What went wrong?"

"Andrews attacked me, and I was unable to defend myself without killing him."

This wasn't the whole story, but it summed it up succinctly. The negotiator didn't seem very upset by this, despite the terms outlined in the contract.

"That's…unfortunate but sadly understandable considering Andrews' recent behavior. But the disc, did you recover the disc?"

"Yes. I recovered it."

"And?"

"Visual inspection does not look positive." Samus displayed the disc to him.

"You're right, it 'does not look positive.' It looks absolutely torched. What did you do, try to cook it? No, don't answer that." He frowned. "I'm not pleased with you."

"You should be. Andrews refused to come back to work for you and this disc is just a liability to the security of your research. He cannot talk to anyone about what he was doing for you, and he cannot sell the disc to one of your competitors. It is with me. I recovered it. As you said, 'he made a copy and fled.' You have the original research, and I have guaranteed that no one else has a copy."

Her logic was sound and from what they had told her, what she had said should have been a consolation. Instead, a large scowl grew across his face.

"You still violated the terms of your contact. Therefore your payment is null and void."

She had expected this, even if she didn't like it. It was time to play her trump card.

"No, it isn't. You nullified our contract as soon as you presented me with the terms and background information; you lied to me."

"About what?"

"About everything. You said the research was yours; it was Andrews's. You said he planned to sell it to one of your rivals; he _was_ your rival. You said he stole it; his entire team was in on it. You said you wanted the research back so he couldn't sell it to your competitors; you never had it in the first place and he had no such plans. You said you interrogated his wife; you killed her."

"Anything else?"

"I think that's more than enough."

"Good. The research _is_ ours. We paid for the project Andrews was working on, and we paid his salary, along with the salaries of everyone else working on it with him. He wasn't a rival; he was an _employee._ You say his entire team was part of his crime? Maybe, but his team didn't represent the staff as a whole. In fact, Andrews killed one of the assistants who tried to stop him, smuggled a weapon into the labs the day of the theft and blew the poor guy's torso to pieces. Sad thing is, this guy almost made it. Died just last night. I'll bet Andrews didn't tell you about _that_. Apparently he _did_ tell you that he wasn't interested in doing anything with that disc but I have no idea why you would believe something like that, from _him_, no less. And even assuming that he's telling the truth, I can't see how _we_ would know it. He took a disc and copied information on it potentially worth billions of Yire, took steps to destroy as much of the original as possible, then ran, making no demands. What else would we think but that he planned to sell it? Now as for his wife, she was interrogated, just as you were informed."

"You _killed_ her."

"I wouldn't know; I wasn't there for her interrogation, and I don't know anything about it other than that I was told that she was. If, as you say, she died, it wouldn't invalidate any of the information I told you personally or we gave you. As with everything else, omission of information and falsification of information aren't the same thing. That was the majority's decision in Vincent v. Damier LLC, anyway. We satisfied all parts of our contract. You're the one who screwed the pooch and if you hadn't, we wouldn't even be having this conversation. You're the only one to blame and because of you, no one won here; at best we cut our losses and you lost out on some easy Yire. Accept it and move on."

"I could blackmail you."

"Oh? With what exactly?"

"I still have a copy of the contract. I could sell it to a news outlet—"

"And what does your contract say? It says that Dorl-Haitian Corporation contracted you to track down an unspecified fugitive for 150,000 Yire. That's it. That's all of the credible evidence you have, and even it could have been forged. What do you have besides that? Your word? That's why we hired you. Who's going to believe an independent green? Go ahead, sell your story if you like. But don't think half a dozen news outlets won't get some nutjob coming their way the very same day, peddling their own conspiracy about the whereabouts of poor Mr. Wade Andrews and their own involvement in it. And don't think you'll be able to get a good night's sleep, not if you want to wake up again.

"You can't win, son. Got it? You cannot _fuck_ with us. You just can't do it. Try, and we will obliterate every trace of you. It'll be like you never existed. We will track down every member of your family—we will track down everyone you've ever spoken a kind word to—and they'll disappear.

"Besides, what are you complaining about? You didn't complete the contract. You didn't do anything to earn that 35,000 Yire advance but you get to walk and keep it, no strings.

"So thank me. Go ahead and thank me. Not for the advance, but for something much more important. Thank me because every punk green with too much testosterone in his balls and not enough brains in his head gets into the bounty hunting business thinking that he's the biggest badass in the universe and no one can do anything to stop him, just because he's got a fancy powered suit or a big gun. Then one day he meets a bigger badass and he learns that his place in the Federal food chain is at the bottom with everyone else. Sometimes those greens don't get the opportunity to do anything with that knowledge. You do. So today was your _lucky_ day."

"I swear, you'll live to regret this."

"I try to live my life without regrets. You should try it. Now shut up and go away. Don't ever bother us again or the current mercy you're afforded will disappear, along with your life." He winked. "Cheers."

The picture in the viewscreen vanished. She depressurized her helmet and pulled it off impatiently, taking a deep breath of real air… well, as real as ship-air could be. The back of her suit spread apart allowing her to step out of it. If she hadn't been so worn out, she would have liked to break something right now.

She sighed and took a moment to stare at her reflection in the viewscreen, her body already bruising to reflect the pain she felt. Her neck and shoulders were likewise injured, though nothing was broken. But that didn't mean it didn't hurt. Every breath and every movement caused her to ache, but at least there was no permanent damage. It would be a while before she healed from this, but at least she'd survive.

She gave a hand gesture and the viewscreen ascended into the ceiling, its place replaced by the kitchenette. There were only two choices in the entire menu and neither had any advantage over the other. She tapped one of the offered icons without looking. As far as she could tell, the only difference between one flavor of Yemen Insta-Noodles and another was the name on the cups. An "Uat Flavored" cup rose from a hole in the counter and she placed it on the cooker. Better get used to this stuff, at least for a while. It was all she had and she couldn't buy anything else until she could obtain more money. It would be difficult, especially since she was now an independent green with a failure for a record. She had to get away from Dimun and find another job, however long that took. Then she actually had to succeed at it. Next time, she would. After that it would be nothing but good food, strong drinks, and fine living for the rest of her days.

But not today.

The cooker dinged. She picked up the cup and removed the lid. She was actually hungry enough that it looked pretty good. She slurped down a noodle and prepared to gag. But she didn't. It didn't taste good, but it didn't taste that bad, either. Samus gulped down the rest of the cup in less than a minute, quieting her grumbling belly. She set course for another nearby platform, got out of her suit, and went to her bed to get some sleep. She knew she wouldn't like the next few weeks, but at least she would survive.

* * *

**~See You Next Mission~**

* * *

There are tens of thousands of worlds in the Federation, each of them their own place, each dangerous and inhospitable in their own way. But the mind, too, is a world unto itself, a terrible thing to waste and able to make a hell out of any heaven. When a man feels wronged, naturally he wants revenge. But if vengeance is the Lord's, as He claims, what's the price of taking it into your own hands?

**Next Episode: **Envy


	4. Episode 3: Envy

_Episode: Envy_  
_Primary Author: KefkaFloyd_  
_Secondary Author: Insomniac By Choice_

_

* * *

_

I rolled over and fell out of bed. The floor was rude, but it roused me at once, and for that, I must be grateful. This was to be a good day, the best in my life, and nothing could possibly mar it. Picking myself up from the floor, I brushed off the nighttime dust and yawned, facing my fatigue straight on. I hadn't slept particularly well, but then I didn't particularly care. Morning had arrived and morning brought food, hopefully _good_ food, but what _I_ ate was unimportant. Very shortly I'd be serving a cold dish, and that would sustain me until my final breath.

As I went to the kitchen, I surveyed my homely home and felt a tinge of guilt at its apparent appearance. The clutters and piles exist for a reason; each item must go where it belongs and be in its proper place or the world is not as it should be. But if I am to have visitors today, they may not understand the order of the universe and think me a poor housekeeper on this account. My necessary eccentricities suddenly become evident in the company—or expected company—of others. The fact that I try to avoid it may not be a coincidence. Nothing in me loves good fences because I have no neighbors, good or ill. But I would build walls if I did, because I need my privacy. Because I'm a private person. Because I'm a person in need of my privacy.

I reached the cooler and opened the door, ready to start my breakfast. I pulled out two eggs from inside the box and placed them within the QuiCooker. I almost felt too nervous to eat, my anticipation growing too great, but I also knew I would need my strength this day to match my determination. I would need to be healthy and determined. But for good health, I would need good eggs and the two I had selected seemed somewhat lacking. Their colors were the wrong shade of white and their proportions were off so-slightly. Not round enough, oblong too much, and far too gray, to boot. One even appeared to have a small crack running along its side. I should have bought them from somewhere else. I should have gone somewhere else to get the eggs. I've noticed the quality of their eggs has been steadily declining and more and more eggs in each pack they sell have turned out to be defective. All of my food comes from the same source, and I have begun to suspect everything they sell is expired. But it's the only game in town, so I must play it and deal. I must sigh and endure.

I tossed the bad eggs away and pulled more out of the cooler. These were in a similar condition so I continued to throw out the successively defective eggs until at last I found a pair that was decent. I cooked and ate them. The first needed salt and the second had too much. Eggs should all taste the same, I think.

My house is mine, and mine alone. My sphere, my castle, my fiefdom, my home. Everything within, I possess and I own. My clothes, my food, my instruments, my chairs. My books, my walls, my ceilings, my stairs. I treat them all with love and care, for my things were not always mine and I swore as their keeper I'd keep them in line.

Yesterday, I got the call. The call informed me that today is the day. I was informed by the call that the day is today. I'm very glad that I was informed because I've been waiting for this day to come and the call to tell me for a very long time. For too long, actually. I can scarcely remember a time when I did not want this day to transpire. But only now, while putting about my humble abode, do I wonder _what_ should be exacted upon him for his punishment.

Decapitation? No, far too swift; done and it's over. Evisceration? Ah, too messy; I should continue lower. Castration mightn't take his life, but it would take his breath, and surely he deserves a fate worse than death. But death he has certainly also earned, so perhaps my eunuch would enjoy being burned. But, however it happens, I won't be upset… so long as he discovers that I did not forget.

What he did to me cannot be forgiven, for I am an artist. Words are slippery things, and eyes are the stuff of lies, but music is pure. It needs no explanation or translation: it is beauty incarnate, and nothing less. I made my living and my life composing such beauty, the melodies of Gods, ambrosia for the soul. My muses were potent and I wrote with such vigor and skill as has not been seen before, nor likely will ever be seen again. With all humility I confess that when the orchestra performed my works, people were overcome with such rapture that women fainted, men were struck dumb, and children wept with joy. The thunderous applause that came forth at the end of a performance was deafening.

But such applause, intended for my ears, was received by another.

No, it was my cursed brother, that damnable despicable knave Cecil who was the focus of such attention. Attention I deserved, attention I had earned.

He stole my music from me. All of it. While I was away, he took it and lied and said that he was its creator. He became famous, wealthy, important. All from my work, all from my beautiful pieces of art. He prostituted my maidens out before the masses for money. He has done such things before, taken what is rightfully mine, but never again. Never again.

For you see, recently, I had a stroke of genius end my futility. My muses returned one last time to inspire me.

Dead he will be and soon, sent to hell by the hand of my avenging angel. Hooray for our modern times, where any man can select the tool of his retribution sight-unseen! Hooray for our brave world where money can indeed buy happiness! Hooray and Amen.

* * *

Here! He's here! Oh, glorious day! The buzzer on the receiver rang at last, no longer would I be forced to wait in impatient agony. Its otherwise grating buzz was now a welcome respite to my dreary day. A drearily glorious day, but glorious, glorious would it remain. I slapped the flashing button, hoping that my angel had flown to me bringing good news. Good news typically accompanies angels' wings, after all.

I ran furiously to the door, my legs carrying me as fast as they could. Had I wings, I would have flown there. But I was no bird and certainly no angel. I was a young boy getting called to dinner, a dinner of nothing but cookies and treats and cakes so sweet. And there would be no one else to eat the dinner but me. Delicious dinner all to myself, with no greedy siblings to eat more than their share. The door buzzer continued ringing as I got there as fast as I could. Nearly out of breath, I hit the open button to welcome my angel from a job well-done.

But the well-done job was not so well, nor so done, I discovered to my horror.

The door slid open, and the angel dressed in red and gold stood in front of me... with Cecil in tow. In tow and looking as though he'd been caught in a row, but I saw now a result most foul: he was alive. Sure the twit looked scared out of his wits, but not dead. I should have been pleased with his state of being, but being me, instead I stood agape. A few moments passed until the golden being spoke to me, my angel angelic no longer.

"Cecil Mueller. Returned alive as per the terms of our contract." To the point he was, as his kind usually is. But here he seemed to be making a point not to follow orders and this would not do. Quickly and swiftly I grew irate, I furrowed my brow, overcome with hate. Whether he observed this or not, who could say? But somehow I think, in his way, he knew what it was I was about to do. I could see it in his eyes, hidden behind a visor of black.

"You moron! You fool! You fiend! You hack! You were supposed to kill my brother, his life destroy! You know the contract, don't play coy! You were to obliterate! Slaughter! Exterminate! Butcher! That should have been-" He cut me off before I could think of any more eloquent terms for brutal, painful death. My angel-no-longer was becoming increasingly impolite.

"The terms of the bounty were to, and I quote, 'bring him to you, dead _or_ alive'. I brought him to you alive. Ergo, I have fully met the terms. Ergo, I deserve and demand the remaining one hundred fifty thousand Yire payment I'm owed."

He was technically correct (the best kind, of course) and I couldn't deny anything he'd said, but he had much to learn about the difference between truth and technicalities. Someone needed to teach him and soon.

"You buffoon. You truly are a green. When people say they want someone alive _or_ dead, they want them dead, I mean, why else have the damn qualifier there? I'm not paying for this, it's only fair." That I couldn't pay for it, he didn't know, but I was in no rush to tell him so. The angel-turned-savage tossed dear Cecil aside, but on the ride he struck the bookcase rather hard. I grinned as he suffered, a fitting reward. A pair of electrobinds shackled both hands and feet, ensuring he could not flee, and though I tried to stop, I giggled with glee.

The man in gold—and I was now quite sure he was just a man—ran up to me with blinding speed, moved so quickly I didn't even see him cover the ground, but I know he did. One moment he was there the next he was here, and I was forced to re-think my position on his mortality. He wasn't divine, but he gripped my neck with such a force that had I not been the one in his vise, it would have been something to marvel and celebrate. Nevertheless, I was in the vise and instead I marveled at the blood pounding in my ears and celebrated my burning throat. The mortal-immortal-angel-that-might-be held me up in the air, and I could hear all the tiny motors of his suit whizzing about busily. I'm quite sure if I had a chance to examine it I would find many technological marvels, a work of art perhaps approaching even my own symphonies. A crooked smile came across my face at this thought. He continued to hold me hostage while confidence built in me somewhat. For I knew what he did not.

"Do you find this funny?" he demanded evilly. "Do you know what I could do to you? If it struck my fancy, I could flick my wrist and tear your head off your shoulders. If I accidentally twitched, it would snap your neck. With a shot from my cannon I could give you a heart attack or I could rip the bones out of your chest. If you anger me further, I may do _worse_. So I'll ask again: where is my money?" His voxcoder had a breathtaking way of presenting his speech. I thought it was rather musical —no, not musical. There was a flatness to it, but such subtleties there were to the flatness that it did indeed appear to have musical qualities. It was expressive in its amelody. Definitely not the standard vocal modifier floating around.

However, despite my transfixion on his voice, I knew now was the time to drop my bomb —and perhaps in his shock he might drop me, allowing me opportunity to escape.

"I'd love to pay you the money I owe," said I with a grin. "The problem is… I have no more to give."

My plan failed and he held me tight in his grip. Closer now, I peered through the dark visor on his helmet, yet still I could discern no emotion. But of my plan he could have no notion.

"You don't have any more money," said the red angel-turned-devil, keeping his voice quite level, "You don't have any more money, but you're telling the truth. Shalgot, you're telling the truth. But you had the fifty thousand Yire deposit and the rest was sitting in your account when I took the bounty. What did you do with it?"

I grinned again, which he didn't find amusing, and he shook me a bit, making my response quite confusing.

"Ah well, you see, I changed my mind. It seems to happen all the time," I spoke through the choke. "Staying the same would be such a waste. Or maybe I didn't intend to pay in the first place. Who can tell what I'm thinking these days? Come back tomorrow and I may give you a raise. Or perhaps I decided that if I offered enough, some gullible green would take it to prove he was tough. If that's what I thought, and indeed, it might be, it looks like I thought rightly."

He didn't like that. Oh, no he did not. I felt his grip tighten and my eyes bulge out. He pulled me closer to his helmet, and his face I could now clearly see —but where my own eyes bulged, his had fury.

"You've made a huge mistake, no matter what your addled mind decided. I've been in a bad mood for weeks and you managed to make it even worse. So you have a choice: I can either sell you to a Federal prison for defrauding a bounty hunter and let you work off what you owe, or you could make amends in a more peaceful way. Keep in mind that I could always just rip you in pieces and rob your place. That would go against everything I've been taught, but you have already tempted me to question my morals. In the state of mind I am now, I don't want to decide for you. So even though you don't deserve it, I'll give you the right to choose your own fate."

Well, I was in a bad spot, and badly miscalculated to boot. Go to a prison colony, die… or give something up. I wisely chose my liberty.

"Take some of the instruments. Anything. Just leave me be. I don't care what you do so long as I'm free."

My cowardice shows through, my plan backfires. Mother always said this was the fate of liars.

"Fine," the bounty hunter said unhappily. "Our business relationship is dissolved. If you still have a grievance against this man, then settle it yourself. Or find yourself another attack dog. I don't care."

He tossed me across the room, and I fell on my right leg painfully. I felt agony in my leg. It was excruciating, the feeling in my leg. It hurt very badly. Perhaps I had broken a bone, but I wasn't sure. It wasn't important. My head complained to me also and both would need attention. As I tried to regain my composure, I watched the man in red and gold stomp around my abode. The first thing he went to was the cooling box, completely ignoring everything of worth in my home. He went straight for my rotten and disgusting food, not realizing what I knew. He threw the box's door open and though I could smell the decay from where I was, he grabbed as much food as he could stuff into one of the nearby bags. Bags he had so rudely dumped out on to the floor ignoring the significance of their contents. He dragged the bag around then grabbed another. After emptying it, threw some of my miscellaneous items inside. He threw in the Stradivarius, my viewscreen, and a pile of holovid discs. My Stradivarius! Alas, gone, but for a good cause. Its value was mostly sentimental anyway and that need for that sentiment was now over. The golden red man dragged the two heavy bags in his left hand with minimal effort and kicked my door open, sending it flying into my yard.

"Be careful who you cross next time," he advised as he stormed outside. "They might not be as good-tempered as I."

Sage advice, though had my avenging angel been poorly tempered, Cecil would already be dead and my situation much different. After he walked out of the door, I remained on the floor for at least ten minutes before I could muster the strength (and determination) to push myself up. My ankle gave out on me when I placed my full weight on it. I cried out. I had a headache, as well, much worse than usual. I needed the contents of the medical pack. But where had I put it? Ah ha, on the table between us. I limped over to the pack and took the various medications for pain until I couldn't feel it anymore. Actually, I couldn't feel anything any more. That problem solved, I moved into the real business, the traitor, my brother. Cecil's eyes were quite wide. I yanked the tape off of his mouth. The first thing he did was ask what was going on.

"Tom! What's going on here?" See, I told you he would. Predictable Cecil continued predictably. "Why are you alive?"

Why am I alive? That is a good question. Nevertheless, my mind is sharp and I knew the answer.

"Despite your attempts to destroy my name and life's work, my health has never been better. Since when was I dead, dear brother, except dead to you?"

He looked perplexed and confused. Perhaps the knowledge of my knowledge of his actions came as a shock.

"Since the space liner explosion ten years ago," he spoke slowly, attempting to buy time to come up with answer, but I saw through it. "You were on board. There were- there were no survivors. Mother and I had a funeral and everything… Where have you been all of this time? Why didn't you try to contact us?"

Silly questions. Silly Cecil. I told him so.

"Oh, Cecil, silly, silly Cecil. It took me a long time to get back together after that so-called disaster occurred. For a time I was suspicious that you were the cause of it- no, do not protest. Let me get through it before I must endure your nonsense. You see, I managed to escape in the lifecraft before it was too late. I knew in my head what was to happen and I escaped in the lifecraft. I remember seeing it happen. I remember… I reached this planet eventually and have been living here since. Cut off from society, making by on my wits and desperation… it was not a pleasant life but I thought of you and our darling Mother worried sick about me. How laughable now! I thought of _you_ worried about _me_! You were the motivation to get me through the tough times. I was able to do many things thinking of you, but none of them bear repeating here. I could not bear to repeat them here. It would not be good to tell you what I did.

"It was by dumb luck that I stumbled upon the home of a retired businessman. He didn't like me, and I didn't like him. We got into an argument and then... Despite my thirst, he wouldn't spare me a drink and I grew angry with him. The next thing I knew, I had slit his throat and he was gurgling his life away at my feet. I don't know how it happened but once my crime was committed, there was little else I could do but take his things and feel acquitted. I promised to take care of them for him and he gave his consent, though not in so many words. He had no wife or children, but lived a decent life, as decent as can be had in this out of the way place. I let myself in and did my best to enjoy his things. At the time, it was to be temporary. Since his retirement, he'd apparently become a bit of a shut-in but every so often some people came by to visit him, and for my own protection, I was forced to do away with them as well. It got so very easy to just quietly dispose of anyone who came to investigate. But I had to, I had to. For Mother and for you. Years have passed since the last person came here to bother me. I sold some of this man's things and collected his retirement stipend until I had enough Yire to finally get connected back to the real world, and what do I discover to find? Under cover of night you've stolen my past life, most unkind."

He looks shocked, at this statement, as he had been with many others. But he is a poor actor in this production and as the director I spot it. I'm sure his web of lies will come crashing down any minute.

"Tom, listen to me. I haven't stolen anything from you and I never would. You're my little brother and I love you."

Nothing else. No modicum of defense? Pitiful! Fine, I won't bother with hints.

"You stole all of my music! My operas, concertos! To my woe, I saw you stand on the stage and soak up the attention! You were jealous of me and all that I had, you betrayed your own brother, you wanted it so bad."

"That's not true, Tom you know it's not. In memory of you I _donated_ your scores to the Nihon Philharmonic for the public domain. You never published any of your work, I guess because you never thought they were perfect enough, but I knew how good they were, Mother too. Anyone who listened to them knew. I just wanted to make sure other people heard them. Maybe that got my own music attention later on, but everything you produced was and is credited to you."

"Liar. Don't you fucking know what you are? You're a backstabbing son of a bitch, using my work to get rich. As if I don't have a clue. You twisted Mother into it or she twisted you. It's a weakness of their gender. I figured it out once, but I can't remember…"

"In the name of Krishna, Tom, what happened to you? You're… you're mad."

"Indeed I am and delightfully so. I see now clearly, when I did not before. Your deceit and your tricks are hidden no more. As a result of the crash I see you for what you are. When I previously couldn't... shouldn't you see yourself for what you are? What I mean is that I didn't realize what you were doing to me all along until I cleared my head."

"That's what it is," said Cecil in a low murmur, but I heard him well. "You stopped taking your medicine."

"That poison? Why certainly. It muddled my mind with unnecessary confusions. I just didn't realize that until I had none to take. I'm free of its touch now and much better as a result. I hear the things people don't say, see the things my blind eyes never did. "

"You're sick, Tom. Sick. Your eyes aren't clear, they're delusional."

"Shut up!" I screamed. I stomped around the room, my anger boiling. Spilling out. Hissing. A thief and a liar. Untrustworthy nonsense, all of it! "You've said enough. I've heard enough. I've listened to it before. I can stand no more. I can… You should prepare for your fate," I said with a cackle.

Cecil squirmed about in a futile effort to escape from his shackles. He looked like the worm he'd always been. This was satisfying as could be. I reached into my jacket and hesitated for a moment. As I was given a choice, so should I give him the courtesy of choosing.

"How would you like to die, dearest, traitorous, brother Cecil? Stabbed? Burned? Blown to smithereens? Eh? I'm afraid we're fresh out of quick and painless; slow and painful is the method of the day." I smiled at my wit. At last I found what was in my jacket and pulled out a small vial of purple liquid. This was where the bounty hunter's money had gone to. Yes, I remember now. I bought it. I bought it as a present for Cecil in case I ever saw him again. Because I knew he was going to be delivered to me alive. I saw it happen. He saw his gift as well and his eyes filled with fear immediately —he knew what his fate was.

"Tom, don't do this to me. This isn't you. Don't you remember the good times? How I always tried to look out for you, to protect you? I could never hate you and I know you—the real you—could never hate me either. Please… Why would you want to kill me?"

"Easy. If I—the real I—am as dead you say, then I'd like you to join me. Brothers should never be separated by anything, I think."

I pull him up from the ground, straining due to the weakness of my leg, though I don't feel it. My strength and determination were strong. I succeed. I popped open the vile vial and forced the foul smelling liquid down Cecil's lie-spewing throat. He tried to spit it out, but he should know as I do that once this substance touches organic matter, it immediately starts breaking it down into… well, I'm not sure entirely. I bought it from a frightening creature —a terrible being, corpulent and weak or emaciated and powerful. Both at once. Muscles and claws and sinews and jaws, designed to do nothing but rip and tear. I would certainly never confuse it to be an angel. It was a monster with skin of green and eyes the same, though I never actually learned its name. Truly a beastly beast, but considering its product, a fitting supplier. The green-eyed monster called it a "neutralizer," and guaranteed me it would be quite painful. My brother and I shall find out together what the exact effects are, it seems.

He tried to choke out a few words, but with his tongue gone, and his bronchial system to follow… All his words were hollow, anyway. He'd had ten years to say whatever needed to be said. Ten years to make amends before his departure. He didn't need more.

"Goodbye, dear brother. It's time to leave. I hope ten years of stealing my life will be worth what you're about to receive."

I watched him convulse with pain while what was left of his mouth opened and closed like a fish out of whatever. Like a fish out of water. Out of water. Actually, tied up as he was, his struggling made him appear very much like a flopping fish. I laughed. I chuckle. I guffawed. I chortle.

But quickly my laughter came to a stop as I realize that my brother, my dearest brother Cecil, is about to die a very brutal messy death… right on top of my new rug. No, no, no. This mustn't do. That rug really ties the room together. I should move him. I should move him outside.

I pull him toward the door to take him outside but his convulsions made this a very difficult process. I take him kicking and screaming, though he cannot actually kick or scream by this point. I feel his agony and I feel relief. The great oppressor who took everything that I ever had or should have reduced to a worthless thing. I'm giddy.

His struggling does little to hinder me. I am strong and mighty. I feel nothing but my own power.

I get him out the door. I should thank the red man for opening it for me.

He spits and oozes the contents of the vile vial on to my nice yard. But that was okay. Let him. If he will kill my grass then I would just have to deal. Sigh and endure.

This will be taking a long time, I surmise. But he nearly is dead. I bear to watch.

I see him run to play with friends. I see Mother hug him and their grins. See the girls he brings back home, while I sit in my room and play all alone. I see him leaving meanwhile I'm, just like the notes floating still in time. I provide them purpose and myself, also. The rhythm gives movement and makes them go. I see the bits come and form the all. I see myself standing tall.

But now I fall. Down. Hmm. I had found myself on the ground, falling over. I am on the ground. I must tell the truth. I cannot lie —here. Here I lie. But why?

I look down at my hands and— oh my. My fingers have been replaced by a large stub. My toes seem to have rubbed off as well, which could be trouble shit. Bull shit. I can see the vile liquid's effects on me, but no. None ever got on me, I would have felt it. It was only used on my oppressor, none touched me when I dragged him—

Cecil continues to spew. My brother has become what he really is. What he deserves to be. A melted blob on—

What's happening to me? My elbows gone now as well. My knees, no thighs. Was it unwise? God. How odd. I feel none of it, but watching it happen is almost surreal. Really weird, I must admit. But I'm smitten. He's dead now, and I'm better off for it. I got my revenge on that miserable little chicken shit. But it hit the fan and flew all over me, and I won't have time to change into something better. But I shouldn't fret, because it's all unfolding as it should be. As it would be, I said from my apex, that I might fall from such a height. Fly my kite on angels wings, wind blown by a demon's breath. Surely you just jest. But in my treasure chest I have gold and silver, no need to pilfer from someone else's plunder. A blunder, I wonder. My continuous unbroken train of thought carries me down into a stream of consciousness, but egads, now I crash. Alas. The line is cut and now I must drift…

But to where?

* * *

**~See You Next Mission~**

* * *

A friend a mine once had such a streak of happenings befall him, if it weren't for bad luck he wouldn't had no luck at all. One day he told me that he was sick of all the bad luck catching up with him and he'd realized the only way to reverse his fortunes was to go looking for some bad luck and get the jump on it first. But I don't see no difference between breaking a mirror and it breaking you.

**Next Episode**: Black Cat Blitz


	5. Episode 4: Black Cat Blitz

_Episode: Black Cat Blitz  
Primary Author: KefkaFloyd  
Secondary Author: Insomniac By Choice_

_

* * *

_

**Planet Theresus of the Greater Theresus System  
Dedlam City  
1549 GFST  
19-10-07 GFSD**

Waiting.

I hate waiting.

I consider myself a patient man, but unproductivity is something I absolutely cannot tolerate in myself or others, especially when it comes at the expense of my only daughter. We had agreed to meet at 1600 hours and, as I glanced at the clock on my desk for probably the hundredth time in the past minute, I saw it was now eleven to the hour. Eleven minutes. Surely I could come up with something to keep me busy until he arrived. Maybe look over some of the quarterly reports or watch a short holovid…

Or not.

The alert just sounded so he must have arrived ahead of schedule. Good. In business, being early is being punctual, and obviously, this fellow is a true businessman. I turned in my chair and pressed the button on the endtable that opened the door. As it slid aside, a man in a powered suit painted gold –well, with flakes of red here and there- was revealed standing on the other side. I studied him more closely, especially the large implement of destruction on his right forearm, and suddenly had second thoughts about allowing such an obviously dangerous individual inside my home. Really, I'd assumed he would just come in casual wear. Of course, his species might not be able to survive in our climate without assistance, and I suppose he deserves the benefit of the doubt.

While I was worried about what would happen when he came in to my home, I'd forgotten he was still standing outside.

"Come in, come in!" I said jovially as I waved my arm towards him. He obliged, stepping across the threshold with a whirr of assisted movements. In the silence of my house, his machinery made quite the racket, though I probably wouldn't have noticed it in a crowded platform. He continued walking in and finally stopped in the middle of the room, standing tall. Somehow he seemed too large for even my spacious home.

"Sit down, sit down!" I said with a chuckle. Did this fellow require an order to perform every action; had I hired myself a golem by mistake? As expected, the metal man obliged, sitting in the, well, rather undersized loafer chair near him. I heard it creak and shudder and saw I'd probably have to replace it. Maybe it wasn't such a good idea to ask him to sit down.

"Thank you for answering the call," I said, "We're a little out of the way here; I hope you didn't have any trouble finding us."

The metal man sat very still with his hands folded on each other, looking very much like he'd been carved out of stone.

"No," rang his voxcoder, but he offered nothing more.

"Oh good. Would you like something to drink? Hungry perhaps?"

"I'm fine," he answered, pausing before continuing on another line of discussion, "Some of your choices regarding this transaction have been rather puzzling, Mr. Cherrington. Before we go any further, I'd like to discuss them with you."

A pity people can't have small talk anymore.

"Oh, of course, of course. Just what is it you'd like clarified?"

"Forgive me for being cautious, but past occurrences have taught me one cannot judge an egg by its shell, especially when it comes to money. Firstly, considering the price you're offering, I would have thought you'd want someone… more experienced."

Did he truly suspect me, or was this just normal caution, as he said?

"Well of course, experience is always valued, but often times experience can't make up for other failings. As I always tell new workers when they join my company, if you don't have what it takes, all experience can do is show you that you don't. But if you do have 'it', nothing but success can follow. Experience isn't a substitute for talent."

"This is truth. And yet, you've seen my record so far. What about it made you decide I have 'talent', exactly?"

"Oh. Well, I suppose getting hired by a reputable corporation for your first mission didn't hurt," I said, thinking quickly, "Obviously they wouldn't have hired you to do something for them if you weren't exceptionally qualified."

"Obviously."

"Am I wrong? I have no experience at hiring bounty hunters so maybe I just can't see I have no talent at picking you people. The truth is, you were first person to respond to my claim so I saw no reason to seek additional claims."

"And yet you _were_ experienced enough to offer this contract off of the normal channels to ensure that it didn't attract typical, by-the-book bounty hunters. I'm sorry Mr. Cherrington, but I don't appreciate being lied to, especially when I may have to risk my life because of it. Now if you'll excuse me, I'll be on my way."

He stood up and began to walk towards the door.

"Mr. Aran, please don't go. I haven't been totally forthcoming with you, I admit, but if you'll allow me to finish telling you about the details, I'm sure you'll see why I was so clandestine about things originally. If you still want to leave after that, I'll understand. Now please," I said, motioning toward the chair. He stopped walking. After a moment he came back and sat down. I was afraid the chair would actually break this time, but again it managed to hold. Oh well, it was already ruined, more damage wouldn't matter.

"I agree to hear you," he said, "but I make no promises."

"That's fine," I assured, "As I said in the contract, the type of bounty I'm setting out is a search and retrieve – I want you to find something precious to me and bring it back. In one piece."

"I understand what 'search and retrieve' means, thank you. What do you need recovered? Information on one of your competitors? Blackmail? Perhaps a missing loved one?"

"Well, something like that. I need you to find…" I took a deep breath, "Mr. Fluffypants."

I could almost imagine the metal man raising an eyebrow – if he had any. Or blinking with surprise. Or his face twisting in rage. Whatever his reaction was, I couldn't see it, and he was silent for what seemed like an eternity before he finally spoke again, using the same monotone that revealed no specific emotion.

"Mr… Fluffypants."

"Mr. Fluffypants," I repeated, "Observe."

I pressed a button on the end table, and out popped a holoprojector, which buzzed to life. An image of the cat phased into existence between myself and the armored man. A black Theresus Shorthair, with some patches of white fur here and there, bronze eyes, rather short whiskers. By all appearances, your average housecat. It was impossible for him to know how precious it truly was just by looking. I could read nothing through the man's mask, but again, his silence spoke volumes.

"You want me…" he paused, apparently unable to put it plainly into words, "to catch a cat. You placed a bounty on one of the illegal listings for a job that isn't even remotely illicit, just a waste of someone's time. If this is some manner of joke, it's a poor one."

I shrugged. Perhaps I'd been too blunt; that always has been one of my weaknesses.

"No other bounty hunter accepted when I laid it out openly so I had to take it off the regular channels and disguise it a bit as bait. You were the first to take it, and here you are. Now that you know, are you honestly going to just walk away and refuse my money?"

"I am a bounty hunter, Mr. Cherrington, not pet catcher, and I won't demean myself by acting like one. Find someone else willing to indulge your eccentricities; I will have no part in it."

"You're here already, why not take the job? If I'd said you were supposed to recover compromising pictures of me, would you have had any problems? How is this any more demeaning than that would be? Besides, beggars can't be choosers."

"Never call me that," he ordered firmly, and I realized I'd pushed one of his buttons, "I do _not_ beg."

"Daddy!" I was distracted momentarily as my young daughter burst into the room. I thought I had set her aside for now, but apparently she outwitted our maid. Such a smart girl. She bounded over to me with energy only a child can have and hopped into my lap. "Is this person going to save Mr. Fluffypants, Daddy?"

"Yes he is, Cassie dear," I answered, smiling, "He came all the way here to find him for you."

"Now wait…" the bounty hunter said, caught off guard. Let's see him get out of this one.

"Oh, thank you so much! I miss my kitty, I hope he's okay!" Cassie shined a brilliant smile, and once he saw that, I knew he couldn't resist. He did better than I usually do, though, and it took him a little while to break.

"I ought as well," he finally conceded, "I'm already here, and I wouldn't want to waste fuel. Yes, little girl, I'll bring you back your… _Mr. Fluffypants._ Don't worry."

Cassandra squealed with delight and I set her down on the floor. She ran off, back to whatever she was doing before the visitor piqued her curiosity. Have to remember to have a talk with Cynthia about letting Cassie get away from her like that. She's not being paid to let my daughter run around the house unattended, after all.

Reaching into my pocket, I pulled out a Fisk worth fifty thousand and tossed it at him. He caught it in mid-air almost effortlessly, as if he anticipated it coming.

"Here's my deposit," I said, "Now don't spend it all in one place."

"Thank you for the advice," the bounty hunter said in a tone even drier than usual, "Now what can you tell me about this cat? Why did he leave?"

"We don't know. One day, we just couldn't find Mr. Fluffypants and he's been missing since. He's not gone far, I'm sure. As recently as a few hours ago, I spoke with several people who say they've personally seen him in the city, but no one would take him back to us without some sort of reward, and I won't be taken advantage of. If I have to pay someone, I might as well pay someone used to catching things, right?"

He didn't say anything back for a while. Is this guy a man or a machine?

"Do you have a sample of its hair?" he said.

An odd request, but if he needed it to do his job, so be it. I reached across the table to a small box, where I kept the cat treats and a brush. Fortunately for me, the brush still had a clump of hair that Cynthia had forgotten to remove after Cassie was combing him. I pulled it from the brush and held it in front of the man, who touched the right side of his red helmet with his index and middle fingers. Without a warning, he spun around and started to leave, leaving the clump in my hand.

"Aren't you going to take it?" I asked.

"I've got what I need. You'll get your cat, just have the money ready when I get back."

Hmph. This Samus fellow needed a lesson in manners. He'll never make it being a strong arm like that.

* * *

Walking down this lane always brings back memories. Not always pleasant ones, but then you have to take the good with the bad or else you move out of the sturdy realm of memory and into the unsteady ground of nostalgia. The only thing that makes bad events worth experiencing at all is if you don't forget them. Naturally, I have a lot of good and bad things to remember because I've been here in Dedlam longer than most, and odds are, I'll be here long after most of them, too.

It was a typical temperate Dedlam day, and I knew I would enjoy today's climate, though I always do, no matter what it is. Our world's only star shone in the sky, illuminating the planet as it had every previous day in the world's history. I've seen more than my share of its sunrises. Been here since it was nothing but an outpost on Theresus' Western hemisphere, seen it grow into a respectable city over the years. And every day, I've taken my morning walk and sized up this world with new eyes, eyes reborn each dawn by what they see. The swath of wealthy men who try to take over this planet do not intimidate me. I've dealt with worse than them before, and come through all right.

I see them every day in this neighborhood, walking their schnauzers and their terriers and corgis. They're cute dogs, pleasant to watch and be around. I wish I could say the same for their owners. They do as they do, live as they wish. I can remember when this neighborhood didn't have mansions, didn't even have paved streets. I even remember when there was nothing but wilderness on the other side of this road, stretching out unblemished to the horizon. And these newcomers come in, throw up a couple of walls, and act like they own the place. Well, I suppose you _can_ own anything if you pay the Yire for it! Ha! As long as I can walk down this same road every morning, it's fine by me.

You usually didn't see much happening around these parts, but unless my new eyes had started failing me, it looked as though something was afoot. Not another rich man, thank God, but a walking hunk of junk! Well, maybe that's being a little harsh, but that suit had certainly seen better days. And in a place like this, who would walk around wearing a suit of armor, let alone one with such an obvious and imposing weapon! A brave man indeed, and an outsider no doubt.

Now why would he be here of all places?

Oh, come to think of it… he could be a bounty hunter. Of course, you don't see very many of those around these parts, don't have much need of them. When did the last bounty hunter come? Why, it had to be at least five years ago, when that fellow wanted by the Obelisk Syndicate was hiding out here with one of his rich buddies. That's right… Wyatt, that was his name. David Wyatt. Oh, what a day that was. This mean ol' bounty hunter, ugly son of a gun, rolls into town on his Hellbike and (after using several unsavory methods to find out from his friends where David was) demands Wyatt! I forget how it all went down, but there was quite the ruckus, and the bounty hunter got his man, and life went on as normal. Funny how that is.

Hold on… was this bounty hunter walking my way? I believe so. What would he want with me? I know nothing about bounties, and I can't think of anything I've done lately that would warrant a bounty being placed on me. Perhaps he needs some directions. I could help with that. He stopped in front of me, and I looked up at him – then kept looking up. From across the street, I didn't realize how big he really was.

"Have you seen this cat?" asked the bounty hunter as he held out his left hand, palm down, in front of my face. Apparently there was some sort of miniature holoprojector in the back of his hand, because it displayed what looked to be a missing pet poster… but three dimensional. Now why would a bounty hunter be out looking for a cat? Maybe he wasn't a bounty hunter, and he was just a cat catcher. That sure seems like it would be a strange line of work. But, come to think of it…

"Why, hello there, stranger! Just let me take a closer look and I'll tell you."

I peered in at the poster, and I'll be darned if I hadn't seen that cat before. Saw it on the street just the other day, as I remember. No street cat, that's for sure.

"Well, I think I've seen a black cat running around with some stray tabby around here. He was heading that-a-way, I think." I pointed eastward. "This is a large city, though – don't you think it might be hard finding that particular cat in this stack of buildings?"

"I have some help," the man said in a low voice. He turned his back and headed easterly, with nary a goodbye. Well, that's no way to go on in life. He could have spared the time to say 'thank you', if nothing else. But like my mother always said, you can't teach people manners. Shame, especially considering how many people could use them these days.

Now, where was I walking to again?

* * *

Objective: Determine verifiability of witnesses' statement.

Overridden. Treat statement as true, limit scan to within –90 and +90 degrees relative to center of visor.

Objective: Locate visual, auditory, pheromonal, and/or physical signs of target.

Scanning…

No close matches.

Resume scanning for threats, postulating likely feline behavior.

Unlikely target is below ground or has gained faculties to enable flight. Assume target is traveling at ground level or within existing structures. Unlikely target has significantly changed form or size since last sample, assume target cannot travel in small spaces or piping. Not unlikely target is no longer living, assume for sake of objective target is living. Make note of feline corpses if scanned.

Recall witnesses' statement.

Target reasonably likely to be within company of other felines. Assign higher probability to groups of two cats or more.

New person has entered scan area, assess threat.

Assessing…

No harmful weapons detected on person, physically unlikely to be aggressive.

Scanning purse for possible weapons.

None found.

Resume postulating likely feline behavior.

Likely to require sustenance. Assign higher probabilities to areas that have food.

Scanning of auditory and pheromonal signs deactivated, focus on solely visual and physical evidence.

Object resembling target now in enlarged scan area. Increase detail.

Color unknown, mass appears slightly larger than in target. Likelihood of matching target 83.378…5 percent.

Notifying.

Direction changed to reflect new information, focus on possible target, continue scanning.

Second object resembling target now in scan area. Approximately two meters away from first object. Color unknown, larger relative to first object. Likelihood of matching target 27.333…3 percent.

Third object now in scan area, likely Human. Approximately three meters away from first object, one half meter from second object. Color unknown, much larger relative to first and second targets. Likelihood of matching target 0.000…7 percent.

Assessing threat level of third object…

Weapon identified as "fork" held in hand, physically not unlikely of aggression. "Fork" unlikely to pierce energy shield, treat as null.

Continue tracking three objects, continue scanning…

* * *

"There you go, boy," I said as I walked over to the new visitor and shoveled some of the food off the plate with a fork, "Enjoy that, because that's all you're getting tonight. If you want more, come back tomorrow."

He took no notice of me and dug his head into the scraps on the ground. I squatted down and petted him on the back of the neck and he obliged me by purring softly. What a cute cat. He reminds me a lot of that stray tabby for some reason, but I don't see why. He's a little too high class for her, by the looks of things. Wonder where she found the old boy. About time she found someone, though, I reckon. I've been watching her come get scraps alone for too many years. Now, to get back to work. I turned around and headed back into the kitchen, ready go back to serving overpriced food to overbearing customers–when I heard a meow.

I turned around and saw the black cat sitting right next to my feet, looking at me with those cat eyes, those sad, forlorn cat eyes…

"I'm sorry, boy, but you can't come in-"

Before I could finish, someone - or was it something - barged in through the back door, tearing it off the hinges. This huge, gleaming yellow man. No, it wasn't his skin, it was an armor. With a cannon. And Jesus H. Christ that was a big cannon.

"Please give me that cat," he flatly spoke through one of those… thingies that scrambles up your voice and makes it come out sounding funny. I forget the name. But even with the visor, he looked like he meant business.

"Go ahead, take him! Take him!" Sorry, kitty, it looks like it's you or me, and I'd rather it be you, honestly. I dove away to get out of the line of sight of that… massive cannon! Unfortunately, this had the side effect of startling the cat. I guess the armored dude ripping off the door didn't help calm its nerves, either. It shrieked and darted towards the dining room.

The armored dude shouted some word I didn't recognize as he took off so quick, I almost didn't realize he was gone. As he barged into the dining room, chasing the cat, I managed to get back up to watch what chaos was sure to ensue. I looked through the window on the door, hoping I wouldn't be disappointed.

Oh, this man didn't disappoint.

The cat ran straight under a table, and the armored man was there an instant later, grabbing the tabletop and flinging it against the wall as if it was a toothpick. Of course, after it hit the wall, that's pretty much all it was good for. The armored man trained his cannon on the cat, but apparently had second thoughts, and the cat dashed off again. The man took off after it immediately. I was stunned watching them from where I was, but the I can only imagine how the couple at the table felt. Or the couple at where the table _used_ to be, I should say.

The chase continued, and the man followed the dashing cat with such precision it was as if he was able to predict where it would go. The cat swerved back and forth and he swerved with it, knocking over chairs and the people in them with abandon. Eventually, the cat jumped on to the main dining table, and the armored pursuer did the same, trampling over the Dures plates and the crystal glasses down the length of the table. Tromping all over the wonderful steaks our cook had prepared for the rich guests that they'd complained about and sent back –only to accept the exact same steaks a few minutes later without protesting its taste. Of course I imagine all steaks taste the same slapping you on the side of the face, which is where most of these were going. Or if not the steaks, then the potatoes and gravy and shrimp and noodles and needlessly arranged salads. Dishes and forks and food flying everywhere, all over the guests too slow or stupid to get out of the path of the bad luck and armored tornado coming their way.

The guests… well, they weren't too pleased by all this. But watching this scene unfold, I just wish I'd brought my recorder with me today. This was pure gold, and deserved to be preserved for posterity. Where else could you see a woman in a hundred thousand Yire dress covered in a hundred Yire worth of Ranch dressing and tomatoes? Or a balding venture capitalist with a pants full of our most expensive wine? Wet from the inside, mind you.

But then, it was over. The cat and armored man darted out the door together, leaving the path of destruction behind just as all the guests began to come to their senses and go back to complaining about things.

That was over far too quickly. I was almost beginning to enjoy myself.

* * *

Tracking target…

Is leaning left, will cut sharply left shortly.

Scanning for threats…

Deactivate scan. Concentrate on postulating target actions and tracking.

Is leaning to right, will cut right shortly.

Is likely to attempt to cross street in approximately 0.42 seconds.

Reminder: Be aware of traveling landcruisers and-

Heavy impact, system interrupted. Target lost.

Words spoken, checking meaning. Profanity. Do not repeat aloud.

Checking armor integrity. Energy shield weakened but suit remains uncompromised. Prepared to continue pursuit.

Scanning…

* * *

I pushed my glasses up on my face, automatically catching them as soon as they began to fall. I need to get them adjusted; they always slip down lately. I should set an appointment before the week is over. What's the day today? I always forget. I checked the desk calendar on the counter… Thursday. The most boring day of the week. It's not quite Friday, but it lacks the panache of Wednesday. Fortunately, it will never be humpday, or doomsday. Sorry, Quasimodo and Nostradamus.

I hate Thursday. Sorry, Thor. Your day sucks.

Well, at least Thursday is a good day to roll around the store and sort the books… or it would be if I hadn't finished inventory yesterday.

That's what I do, by the way. I run a bookstore. You'd think no one would have use for books in these modern days, what with comprehensive virtual libraries that are updated by the second, and cheap digital paper… but these books are classics, antiques even, and it is my duty to preserve them lest an interested buyer comes along!

I'm Katrina. I run the Destera Book Shop, the only one within four parsecs. Not many people can say they have the only anything in four parsecs, and yet… no one ever comes to my store. All I do all day is tend to the books. When new ones are donated, I clean them, read them, sort them, then re-read them later. Kind of a droll life, but I've always been fond of books. I never could get into computers… I'd rather bury my nose in these paper antiquities. There's something intimate about the tangibility of the printed page, the smell of the paper, and the way the unalterable ink is put on it that can't be simulated in any other way… it feels romantic. Maybe that's my problem. I'm _too_ romantic, and I end up waiting here to find something that only exists between these pages and isn't in the real world anymore, if it ever was.

Sigh.

There were no new books today. Or in the last week. Or in the last month, actually. So, I've been cleaning the shop, and I just finished that. Not a spot of dust anywhere. Way to go Katrina. Whoo hoo. You rock at life.

There had to be something to do. I mean, I couldn't just spend the rest of the day doing _nothing,_ could I?

I started brushing my brown hair, which I keep tied in two long, thin tails. Just because I'm involved with these books all day doesn't mean I can't keep my looks in line. After all, I'm only twenty-four standard years old, and still _highly_ available… but I sure feel older. Gray hairs already. If I got paid more money, I'd get them dyed. But government stipends for historical preservation are a pittance… with all of these rich folks moving in lately, you think one of them would come in and buy a damn book once in a while!

My brushing was interrupted by a ring of the doorbell. Someone actually opened the door and came into the store! I tried to hide my excitement at what should be the routine and looked around the corner… to see no one had entered. Why would the entry bell ring if no one was here? I mean, you had to walk into the automatic door for it to open…

I walked out from behind the counter to see what had caused the door to open, when the door itself shattered! Something wearing Hermes' sandals broke into my shop, and I spun my head around to try to keep up with it. Who would break into my shop? Especially when the door opens automatically!

"Excuse me!" I yelled over the racket of the blur running around the shop. "Can I help you?" The blur stopped momentarily – but after creating such a mess I could never imagine! It reminded me of a scene from one of the books I'd read – if I could find it in this pile! He had done so much in so little time – while he's no Barry Allen, he certainly had the ability to create chaos quite quickly! My head was spinning – I couldn't grasp everything he had done. What did he do again? A wind of my loose papers settled to the floor, and I wasn't even sure if he didn't violate me.

After taking a second to gather my bearings, I finally started to look at my intruder. Standing in the middle of the shop was this… monstrosity of a man! With his golden body armor and crimson helmet, and winglike shoulder pauldrons… Poetic and graceful and powerful - Zeus himself would shudder at the sight! I didn't know such things could exist! It was as if he came to life from inside the books… and then he spoke.

"Have you seen a cat?" he said as he held out his hand and a holographic image of just that appeared from the back of it.

One of my eyebrows shot up, inadvertently. I hadn't thought anything he could say could catch me off guard after his entrance, but a cat? What an odd question to ask. Why would I have a cat in my bookshop? I adjusted my glasses again.

"Well, I don't think–" Before I finished, he interrupted me.

"There you are!" The armored one pointed at me – no, _behind me_ - and I turned around. There was a black cat! I couldn't believe my eyes. So _that's_ what came in the door! Before I could do anything, he jumped right over me and on top of the cat! He wrestled with it for a few minutes before he hand it firmly in the grip of his shiny hand, and it was scratching and biting futilely.

"Finally," he said, though he seemed to be talking to himself more than me, "I haven't prayed in a long time, but I feel like thanking someone for ending this torture."

With the cat in hand, the… soldier, or whatever he was, quickly walked out of the store he'd left in shambles.

Ack! Books, everywhere! Novels on the floor, encyclopedias on the desks, and poetry strewn about! My Shakespeare with my Dylan! My Milton with my Vonnegut! Poe with Chaucer! All of my hours of careful sorting and organization ruined! It will need to be done over again! This means…

I finally have something to do at work! My life has meaning again!

I started dancing about, grabbing books from the floors and throwing them on the desks. I could read them all over and… make a new sorting system! I sat down in the pile and began reading titles and setting them aside when a young man with glasses walked in through what was left of the doors and rushed over to me.

"My goodness! Are you all right? I saw some giant man walking out of here!"

"Oh yes," I said happily, "Someone just came in here and made my day for me."

He looked at me, then at the mess, then back at me and laughed heartily.

"I guess you have a funny set of parameters for what makes a good day. I was going to come by and try to exchange this book," he said and I noticed that he was holding a copy of _Paradise Lost_ in his right hand, "But I guess you're a little busy right now." No, I'm not busy! Please don't leave!

"Oh not at all, not at all! It's just that if you want to exchange something, I'm afraid it may… take me a while to find what you're looking for." I laughed nervously

"It might be a little faster if I helped you. Besides, it's a good excuse to learn your name, Miss…?" This took me by surprise. I pushed my glasses up my nose again – I really need to adjust them - and responded quickly.

"Oh! Katrina. I mean, Wright. Katrina Wright." I smiled, and he handed me his book.

Thank you, mysterious armored man. Life has meaning once again!

* * *

That bounty hunter left a few hours ago – with my money - and I haven't heard back from him since. If I wasn't so sure he needed _more_ money, I'd worry that he decided to skip offworld with it and never come back. On the other hand, no one has called trying to claim the reward, lately. That must mean the bounty hunter has caught his bounty and Mr. Fluffypants will be returned shortly. That was the smart thing to do, hiring a bounty hunter to catch a cat; paying someone to do the job right is always smart.

So all that's left is to play the waiting game until he gets back.

But then again, maybe I won't have to play it for much longer. The security system started making noise – someone must be approaching the house. Someone heavily armed. Must be him. I prepared the door for his entry. At least, I hoped it was him. Within seconds, the door slid open, and there he was, Mr. Fluffypants in tow. I couldn't believe it. He'd gotten it done, and all in the same day, too.

It didn't seem that Mr. Fluffypants was too enthused with this accomplishment, though – he was held tightly in the iron grip of the man's armor and was fighting mightily to escape. The bounty hunter Samus raised his arm, held the cat aloft, and spoke.

"One Mr. Fluffypants, delivered whole and relatively unharmed."

He continued to hold the cat, and I was about to take it, but to my surprise, Cassandra came running up and took him from Samus by herself! The cat mellowed immediately, but I couldn't tell if it was happy to be back in Cassie's arms or if it was suffocating from her smothering of it. Samus stared – well, I assumed he stared - at Cassandra for a few moments as she hugged Mr. Fluffypants until I broke his attention.

"Congratulations. It may not seem like a whole lot, but what you did just made the day for one little girl. I thought she'd never get over it when Mr. Fuzzybottoms ran away. After a week, I finally bought her Mr. Fluffypants and until you showed up, I thought I was going to have to buy her another cat again. Thanks to you, I don't have to. Here's the rest of your payment, and I'll be sure to post a glowing review for this contract." I pulled out one of the million Yire Fisks from my pocket and placed it in his free hand. "Don't spend it all in one place," I said, winking.

He glanced at the figure, and, again, stood silent. I wish I had a view into that crimson helmet to see his expression – had this working stiff even seen that much money in one place before? It didn't matter to me, I have more than enough money. Letting a lonely bounty hunter have a little bonus isn't going to break me.

He kept staring at the card, and then put it into a storage compartment on his armor.

"If this is how pet catchers are paid, I may have entered the wrong business," he mused aloud. What an odd lot these bounty hunters are. Or at least this one is. "If you ever have need for real bounty work to be done, you know how to get in touch with me and don't hesitate to."

I nodded at him and he started to walk out the door, then turned around sharply in a way that worried me.

"A little while before you said that you would post a glowing review of me, did you not?" he asked, and if it was possible through the voxcoder, he sounded worried.

"Yes, I want to be sure that people know how far beyond my expectations and standards you managed to go on this transaction."

"I would prefer it if you said nothing, Mr. Cherrington. Your original offer was vague and I would appreciate it if your review of my performance was vague as well. While receiving a million Yire is good for my reputation, anything involving anyone named 'Mr. Fluffypants' is not, if you catch my understanding."

I did, and told him so. He gave me a thumbs up, and resumed his departure. Before the door could close, Cassandra jumped in front of me and started yelling.

"Thank you, Samus! Bye!"

I wonder if he knows what it's like to make a little girl's day. Well, I guess he does now.

* * *

~See You Next Mission~

* * *

When you're feeling down, sometimes you tell yourself things aren't the way they really are. Watch out, denial can swallow you whole, and no matter how fast or far you run, eventually, the truth will always catch you, but it won't necessarily set you free.

**Next Episode**: Blue


	6. Episode 5: Blue

_Episode: Blue  
Primary Author: Insomniac By Choice  
Secondary Author: KefkaFloyd_

_

* * *

_

**Glorious Platform of the Extra-Wallach System  
Freedom Plaza  
1945 GFST  
08-12-07 GFSD**

Rancore Dret was lost, hopelessly, irrevocably lost.

As he walked down the street in search of a suitable place to hide out for the night, his only consolation was that it was not his fault. There were no maps, and he'd never been here before.

Already he hated it.

He was currently alongside the fifth floor of an apartment column—if he was actually on the floor he thought he was—and it looked just like the fourth and third floors had. Next to the apartments was the "ground floor" of a tech shop, beginning where the ceiling of the bank below it stopped, but other than the sign on the door, there was no discernable difference. All he could see were endless columns of buildings, empty streets, and the occasional ramp joining one floor to its mirror image above and below—everything a shade of gray, dull and dreary and depressing. It was logical that he'd have trouble finding his way around.

It was not his fault.

He was in his present situation and setting because he'd had no other choice. Events beyond his control had brought him here and those same events were guiding him currently. He had to get somewhere quickly and recuperate. He had no other option. His body couldn't handle any more stimulants unless he got some healthy, natural sleep in him; he had to get somewhere quickly before something happened to him.

It was the dark hours of the platform, a dangerous time anyway, but on a liberty platform, even more so. There were thugs out, looking for easy prey, but Rancore knew despite his small stature, he wasn't that, and he wasn't very concerned with _them_ anyway. If he was lucky they might just beat him up and take the few Fisks he'd purposely hidden poorly. They might even kill him. But if star boys picked him up, he'd have much bigger problems.

A Human was coming toward him from the opposite direction, probably female, though Rancore had never been good at judging that. She didn't seem interested in him, but he tightened his grip on his weapon and went through the mental process of taking it out and firing. He'd only done that once before, but he hadn't had time to think about the process then. He found that in even in hypotheticals, this was a much more difficult procedure.

His mental preparation was for naught, and the Human continued past him peacefully, giving only a nod of acknowledgement and courteous smile.

Rancore had always had an abstract dislike for Humans for some reason. It didn't stem from a traumatic event of victimization in his life or even sociological resentment of their unofficial superior status within the Galactic Federation. He didn't know what it was, but the feeling was definitely there.

It was the temperature, he finally decided, unconsciously wrapping his coat tighter about himself. It was long and dark, complete with a hood, and he supposed that it did a good job of hiding his appearance, but really he'd only bought it for the climate.

_Why did they have to keep all of their platforms so damnably cold?_ Rancore's internal monologue demanded. Intellectually he knew that it had something to do with their own biologic requirements, but he still felt as if it was done solely as a personal, petty attack on him. Keeping the air at forty degrees wasn't too much to ask, was it? His home platform had kept the temperature a mild forty-five throughout his life; he'd never even worn a jacket until a few days ago. But then a lot of things had changed since then.

Which was a pity. He'd had a good thing going for him. Not a great life but an acceptable one, and no one (at least no non-Human) could expect anything more than that in this day and age. He hadn't made an honest living, but it had been decent. Better than most, probably. If he could have held on to more Yire than he donated to his favorite charity—the spacetrack—he might have even been considered well off. And what was wrong with that? He earned his own money, in a fashion; he deserved the privilege to spend it how he liked. Was there a better way to spend Yire than on something enjoyable? Surely the people whose money he stole—surely the people whose money he _subtly procured_—would have done the same, even if they'd chosen a different venue with which to enjoy their money. Moreover, _he_ risked his life to get his money; if he got caught doing it, he could be killed, or at the very least fined into prison. When was the last time any of _them_ risked _their_ lives to earn a Yire? He deserved to be able to do what he loved.

Rancore Dret loved females, a further—though again, worthwhile—draw on his income. He loved their company, loved their smell, and loved their feel and their taste. He appreciated their finer qualities as soon as they stepped into a room and often it was enough to simply observe and admire. More often it wasn't.

And what was wrong with that? Rancore had a specific female he appreciated because of the physical service they exchanged and neither of them pretended that it was anything different. Neither of them believed that it was any different. Well, _she_ might have, but if she did, he had done nothing to encourage it. He loved what she could do for him, but he didn't love her. Did that make him a bad person? Of course not. He had cheated on her more times than he could count, with similar females who meant even less to him, but that didn't make him a bad person. Monogamy was supposed to be reserved for those who could do no better, and he _could _do better. So he did.

He wasn't a bad person, he was just special. He was put into certain situations others weren't but he handled the situations the same as any other normal, decent person would. So what if just a day or two after finding out his primary partner was fertilized, Rancore had skipped off of his home platform and come here? It wasn't because of _that_ and again, he'd had no other choice. Someone else had probably fertilized most of the eggs anyway. No reason to feel guilt over it. His one and only regret was that all of this had happened to _him_.

If that damn pilot hadn't crashed on Del Kora, it wouldn't have. Which wasn't Rancore's fault. He'd made a smart bet that just hadn't panned out like it should have. If he could have gone back in time and done it again, he would have. Well, now that he knew the guy was going to crash, he wouldn't have, but just going on the information he'd had when he'd placed the bet, a hundred times out of a hundred he'd have done it. He'd been that sure.

The only way to get a decent living in life was to take advantage of sure things whenever they came to you. No use in wondering what might have been. That was the only reason he'd asked for money from the Dead Reds. When something that good came across your lap, you had to squeeze every Yire out of it that you could. Previous donations to the spacetrack and his various female partners had left him with only fifty-five hundred Yire on hand. Oddsmakers had _The_ _Columbo_ at 12-1, but Rancore had known better and while sixty-six thousand was good money, it would be a terrible waste on something this good. So he'd asked the Reds for two million.

He'd asked the Reds for two million.

He'd had a good business relationship with them and, they were good people, some minor flaws in their collective personalities notwithstanding. Their interest rate—one hundred percent—was definitely a reasonable one under the circumstances of an on the spot Yire loan, but something he'd easily be able to cover once _The Columbo_ came through for him. It was just like he was betting two million at ten-to-one odds, instead of twelve. He'd get twenty million. With that much he'd be able to live easy for the rest of his life… or at least have a couple of great weekends at the tracks.

Even now, walking in the chilly dark, alone and miserable, Rancore could almost _taste_ that twenty million. Listening to the feed for the first two hours, that money had become nearly tangible. Then, at exactly 0715 hours, the report had come in. _The Columbo _had crashed (it's pilot—the lucky bastard—survived), and Rancore's life crashed and burned with it.

For the next several days he'd attempted to earn back as much money as he could, going so far as to try outright muggings for the first time. He'd even pawned almost all of his, and a few other people's, possessions to try to get as much Yire in hand as possible. For all of his efforts and scraping together, his total funds still hadn't surpassed ninety _thousand_. But he figured that he might be able duck the Reds a little longer until he could offer them a reasonable down payment to buy him some more time. He was a pro at not being noticed. Surely he could hide from a couple of Deaders until the heat was off of him. Surely.

They'd still grabbed him, of course. Caught him tailing some guy, then just picked him up off the sideway and into their roller. He hadn't even had time to think about it before he'd felt a painful knock to the back of the head, and he'd been out.

* * *

Upon waking, he'd discovered that it was no dream he was in, but a very real, very frightening scenario. He sat in a chair but standing next to him there was two hundred kilograms of muscle in the form of an imposing Dead Red enforcer— a Xion and obviously a 'moner. On the other side of a desk there were two more Xions, one standing—who also looked like he'd been using hormone enhancers— the other sitting. Rancore recognized the sitting Xion as "Xr. Roft", the Deader with whom he'd negotiated the terms of the loan.

"Hey, Core." Xr. Roft smiled. "How've you been?"

Rancore tried not to piss himself.

"Uh, hi, Xr."

"I asked you how you've been. It's rude not to answer a direct question."

"I've- I've been better, Xr."

"Oh, that's too bad. I'd think having all that money would cheer you up."

"Yeah… Well, see the thing is—"

"You told me that you'd found a sure thing, didn't you, Core?" Roft asked. "I distinctly remember you saying that to me, promising me that I'd get double back what I loaned you. Some people didn't think you'd be able to pay it back but you know what I said? I said, 'This guy is all right. If he says he's got a sure thing and he's borrowing this much money from us, I'm sure he's telling the truth. He'd have to have a fucking death wish, otherwise,' I said. 'For two million Yire, this guy would have to be a suicidal masochist to bring something like that down on himself.' That's what I said to them _then_. But _now_ I'm having doubts about your sure thing. It's been a few days since you were scheduled to pay us. So maybe you just couldn't make it over here. That's why I made arrangements for this little pick-up. You see, I'm a thoughtful guy.

"But I have to tell you," Roft went on, "I've heard some things. A couple of people have mentioned that your sure thing didn't turn out to be so sure at all. But maybe those guys, I don't know, just have a _grudge_ against you or something. So I'd like you to get a chance to just explain yourself face-to-face and tell me why the money has been a little late in coming. Could you do that for me, Core?"

"I, uh, I don't have it —er, all of it. I have some, most of it really but," Rancore paused before rushing through his confession, "the-ship-I-bet-on-crashed-and-I-can't-pay-you-back-yet." He closed his eyes and winced, reflexively. But there was no outburst and no fist or blunt object plunging painfully into his tender flesh. There was just the voice, continuing on in a calm, steady tone, no different than it had been.

"Ah, but I disagree. I think you can," Xr. Roft smiled again. "Core, tell me something, how well have you kept in shape?"

"Pretty well, I guess."

"Don't be humble. You're in great shape. And besides that, you aren't blind, or artificial, or cancerous. Every part of you is in natural, working order. You're a fine specimen of your species."

"Uh, thanks?"

"So," Roft continued, "while you may not have a four million Yire _Fisk_ to give to me, you can certainly give me four million Yire. Why, a pair of working eyes alone goes for nearly a half million to the right buyer."

Rancore had to let that statement repeat itself in his head a few times before he caught its full significance.

"Wait, Xr. You don't really mean that. Come on, I'll pay you back—"

"I do mean that and you're right, you'll pay me back _in full_ by the end of the day. Nyson," Roft instructed as he waved his hand and went back to looking at some papers on his desk.

Rancore' electrical net was usually reserved for platform security and attentive marks but apparently this "Nyson" fellow was unaware of the usual tricks of the pickpocket trade and grabbed Rancore roughly by the arm to pull him up.

Rancore switched the net on, causing the thug to tense up helplessly as all of his bulging muscles began firing off simultaneously. Rancore reached for the weapon stuck in Nyson's waistband and pulled it free just in time to see the thug on the other side of the desk pulling out a weapon of his own. Rancore fired first. It happened so fast, happened without even thinking about it, and he didn't have time to identify what weapon he was using. If he had, he might not have been able to use it.

It was a party.

Even though Rancore knew the obvious root of the word, he'd never thought it very fitting. "Particle gun" didn't describe the weapon itself or mood it caused, just the type of ammunition it fired. Instead of hard slugs or pellets fired at a high velocity, it fired sharp, dust-sized particles at a _very_ high velocity, more akin to flechette or flak ammunition. When they reached their target, they might as well have called the gun "hamburger" because that's all that was left of a person caught in front of it. When Rancore first pulled the trigger, he was briefly afraid he'd missed, but once all of the particles in front of him cleared and he saw what he'd been using, he knew that was impossible.

Rancore crept up to the desk and looked over the edge. He'd aimed it at the thug, but that was almost easier to deal with, as _that_ Xion was totally unrecognizable from the waist up. The fact that he didn't resemble anything remotely alive made it surreal; only someone with a good imagination could reshape the remains into a living thing, and thankfully Rancore didn't possess such abstract thinking. Xr. Roft, on the other hand, sitting beside the thug, had _not _received the full treatment, just half.

The right side of Roft's upper body was shredded, almost to the point of the thug beside him. But if Rancore could have seen the Xion's left profile, he wouldn't have even known something had happened. But between the ruined and perfect flesh was a mixture of the two, oozing and spilling out. And unlike the thug, Roft was still alive.

Still _breathing_.

Rancore did what any normal person would in his situation: he threw up.

* * *

He had forced himself to take the Fisks the three Deaders had had on them but had found himself unable to finish off the thug named Nyson, muscles still tensing every tenth of a second with electrical impulses. He probably should have, if just so that the Reds wouldn't have known who was responsible, but then he admitted that it wouldn't have mattered anyway since they could have gotten a bio sample from his rather generous supply of vomit.

However they actually found out he'd done it, he'd been a dead man walking from then on. As soon as he'd gotten off of the platform, he'd checked the space boy listings and seen the open bounty on his head: five million Yire guaranteed on delivery. The Dead Reds were incredibly rich and they wanted to make an example of him; Xr. Roft was an underboss's son killed over a failure to repay a loan. Every star boy in the area would go after a bounty that paid out five million dead and _ten_ million alive, meaning every star boy in the area would be going after him.

His only chance was to make it to a rural colony and disappear off the grid, spend the rest of his days in backbreaking menial labor on a farm or in a low level factory. But he'd have quite a few days in his life, and that was all that mattered. If the star boys caught up to him and cornered him, he hoped he could have the fortitude to do what he knew was required. A self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head, over and done. If he couldn't, he'd probably get taken back to the Dead Reds and… well he didn't want to think about that.

* * *

Finally—with no help from a map or a rational layout—Rancore reached a place where he could get a few hours of rest. It wasn't much but then he wasn't planning on using it for anything but a nap. He couldn't stay very long without giving star boys time to catch up with him, but only paying for a night's worth of rent would look suspicious. He walked up to the Human (male?) sitting at the front desk taking reservations, and Rancore paid for two days and three nights. The Human receptionist didn't require anything more, but Rancore felt he should say something else, something normal.

"I'd like not to be disturbed, if possible," Rancore said. "I'm very tired."

The Human showed a teethy smile.

"I'm sure that won't be a problem, sir," the receptionist said, holding out a key.

As he took the key and went up to his room, Rancore snorted. Yeah, like they were going to be banging on his door in the middle of night offering him room service. Would be nice, though. He hadn't eaten anything but pills since he'd been on the run.

He got to his room and opened the door then shut it behind him immediately, leaving the room almost completely dark. The only light that came in was a faint azure-neon glow through a window that had been hastily covered by a cheap curtain taped to the walls. Or something. Rancore wasn't sure, and he didn't feel like checking.

He sighed, relief rushing over him like a violent wave, threatening to drown him. His eyelids slammed themselves shut and it took every muscle in his body to lift them again. If he wasn't careful, he might just pass out on the floor. A groan of extreme exertion escaped his lips as he attempted to walk across the room to where the bed was, something he could only guess at thanks to the severe lack of illumination. Soon, he would get some rest, probably the last until his final fate was decided. He'd either live free or die free. He was sure of that.

But he wasn't sure that he should lie down just yet. He needed to get a look at himself. His eyes probably wouldn't be a very reliable source, but his body was a little too numb to be trusted. Who was he kidding, he was a walking zombie. Rancore just needed to check himself out to see if there was anything that needed some kind of medical attention.

He changed direction and groped his way toward where a bathroom might be, leading with his hands and feet so that he wouldn't bump into anything. Eventually he reached an opening into another room and searched for the light switch. He flipped it on. Nothing. Oh great. For some reason, he tried the switch several more times, but the results were no different.

He removed his hood, despite the chill, and tested out his eyes, which had adjusted somewhat to faint light. He moved until he could see an outline of his features in the mirror, though it was mostly a backlit silhouette, and spent several moments running a hand over his smooth head, the only part of him tall enough to be seen by the mirror. At worst it was a little bluer than usual, but no large gashes or bone fragments were jutting out. Rancore smiled. He didn't _see_ anything in the mirror that looked like it needed immediate attention. That was that. Time for bed.

Rancore stumbled forward and fell on top of the bed, asleep before his head touched the padding.

* * *

He woke up with a jolt, impulsively clutching for his party gun. He fumbled to get it into his hands and out from under the covers (how had that gotten there?), but by the time he was able to achieve this, he realized that he had no reason to use it. The room was still as dark and quiet as ever, undisturbed. In fact, it appeared the only reason he was awake was his bladder's burning urge to urinate. He tried to just lie back down and fall back to sleep, but his body wouldn't let him, at least not before he relieved himself.

Grumbling, Rancore got out of his bed and placed the party back in one of his side pockets. He tried to think of the layout of the room in the vague terms that he had previously experienced them and managed to blind-grope himself toward the bathroom. He made it, then flicked the light switch a few times before he remembered that it didn't work. He didn't know how he would find a Type II toilet in pitch darkness, but realized that considering the type of hotel this was, the floor would do just as well.

While he took advantage of this freedom, Rancore found his thoughts drifting toward a subject that had nothing to do with him anymore: his eggs. Well, they were his female's eggs, but he might have contributed to their genetic make-up. Might have. Probably hadn't. But even if he had, they were behind him now, in a place he could never go back to. What difference did it make whether he had some undelivered children or not? He'd never see any of them, barring some impossible coincidence.

But somehow it did matter. His female—what was her name again? Something with a "J" maybe. Or an "S". Anyway, that one had always been his favorite, but he'd never actually loved her and even now he wasn't particularly concerned with what happened to her. It was what she had inside of her: those little potential pieces of him. Even if the worst should happen to him, some part of his existence would live on in them. They would be his immortality. _If_ they were one of the few who survived until the end of the pregnancy.

Now, in this run down hotel on a freezing platform an unfathomable distance from his home, he found himself wishing that he'd fathered many more. He wished he had thousands of little Drets running around his platform, subtly procuring funds from people with too much money in their pockets. Ah, what a legacy that might be…

A loud bang brought him back to reality, and as he looked over his shoulder, he saw the door to his room falling inward while a broad strip of light poured in from the lit hallway, shining directly onto his bed. A large figure wielding an equally large gun stepped inside and immediately sprayed the bed with forty or fifty bullets, using an automatic weapon of some sort.

Rancore almost yelped with surprise, but suppressed this. He pulled up his pants and reached for his gun. He forgot to turn off his hose, leaving the front of his pants quite wet, but all of his attention focused on the person currently approaching the bed to check the results of the assault.

Rancore did his best to slow and quiet down his ragged breathing as he leveled his party at the spotlighted target just a few meters away. Knowing what would happen and the relative unimportance of his aim, he closed his eyes and pulled the trigger. A moment later he heard a thud and opened his eyes to see the would-be assassin lying on the ground, motionless except for occasional reflexive twitching. Rancore didn't have a chance to study or be relieved by this outcome, however, because as he looked at the window on the other side of his bed, he noticed a figure standing outside that he'd apparently overlooked in the previous confusion. A figure leaning through what remained of the window. A figure pointing the barrel of a gun in his direction.

This time he did yelp.

An instant later, fire erupted from the end of the muzzle, sending a lethal dose of buckshot in Rancore's direction. Luckily for him, as he'd yelped, he'd also fallen to the floor and the buckshot went above and beside him, into the walls on either side and mirror behind him. Seeing his attacker lower its aim, Rancore rolled further into the bathroom until he was completely hidden behind the walls. A second shot was fired but Rancore was safely out of the target area and consequently, in the middle of his pool of urine, soaking him. This knowledge registered in his brain, but it was in queue behind the realization that although he was clearly out of the way, the aggressive figure had fired anyway.

Perhaps he had only been seen before because of the previous flash of his gun?

As stealthily as he could, Rancore crawled on his belly until he was at the bathroom's entrance. He took a deep breath and slowly peered around the edge. He saw his attacker was still outside and doing the same from the window, but standing and backlit by a blue glow. Hidden in absolute darkness, Rancore felt confident the guy couldn't see a thing. After all, he was betting his life on it.

Rancore began crawling toward the side of his bed, doing his best to stay quiet and out of the light streaming in from the hallway. He couldn't hear himself moving or see his hand in front of his face, so he hoped the person trying to kill him couldn't either.

Rancore got to the edge of the bed and rose to his knees so that his eyes were just above the top. His heart beat madly in his chest. The attacker poked its head around the window frame again, this time going so far as to take a step into the room. Then the hunter pointed its gun directly at the bed, and Rancore was sure that it was all over. But the hunter turned its weapon back toward the bathroom and swung its other leg over the window frame so that it was completely in the room. Rancore felt like praising… someone, but he kept it to himself and aimed his party once again. An awful thought crossed his mind as he realized that this might not be the last one in the group. But he quickly settled himself down with the reasoning that if there were more than two, the other one would have shown itself by now and besides, Rancore didn't really have another choice.

Almost as if the hunter knew what was about to happen, at the last moment it turned back to face Rancore and received the party's discharge at point-blank range. The space boy died but Rancore didn't wait to see the result. He stood up and went to the door, then hastily looked in both directions to see if there was anyone else hunting him. Surprisingly, no other occupants had even opened their doors. Rancore needed no further hint. He kept his gun in his hand and fled from his room as if the devil Himself was on his heels.

* * *

**Rudell Platform orbiting Coka Monika Planet  
Scheduled Shuttle 0600  
0559 GFST  
11-12-07 GFSD**

He'd made it.

Sitting in the transport ship of the orbital platform less than a minute away from departure, Rancore Dret had finally made it. He hadn't slept since that ill-fated night, but all his suffering would be history, shortly. A story to remember and tell to his new terrestrial friends when he got too drunk. They wouldn't believe him, of course. In fact, _he_ didn't believe him. But it was a very good story, made even better by the happy ending that accompanied it.

Well, a bittersweet ending. He was going to reach the planet and be safe, but his quality of life would be greatly lacking compared with what it had been. It was better than the alternative, sure, but physical work had never fit him very well. He'd be willing to give it a try, but even a planet on the Outer Rim had cities and people in them with money trying to jump out of their pockets and in to his hands. If being a farmer or whatever didn't work out for him, there was no reason to just waste all those years of experience he'd earned in his previous occupation. Of course then _he'd_ have too much money, and he'd have to find whatever the local equivalent of the spacetrack was, solving half of the issue of what he'd do to enjoy his money. He'd never been in to that whole cross-species thing, but he had needs, and he doubted any of female members of his race would be there to greet him. He'd just have to make due with the closest thing species could find, he supposed.

"You there."

Rancore heard the voice, even and metallic, in his ear. At first, he thought it was just an automated message, but then he realized that that couldn't be right. It had said "you there", after all, hadn't it? Automated messages wouldn't say something like that.

A second later, he heard strange sound and with it, he felt heat on the back of his neck. As he turned around, he saw a bright light and behind it, the barrel of large cannon. Behind the cannon, there was in turn an even larger man in a red and gold powered exoskeleton.

"You there," the man in the exoskeleton repeated, pitilessly. "Come with me."

The man was between Rancore and the only exit. Even if his party hadn't been confiscated for the trip, the man had hardware far too heavy for him to overcome. His electrical net would be useless and it seemed like the man was intent on taking him alive.

Therefore, Rancore trembled as he stood up, but did as he was told. After all, he had no other choice.

* * *

**~See You Next Mission~**

* * *

Quite right, quite right. My friend, don't you understand that when you're on the job, you're on the clock, and it's only a matter of time until you get what's coming to you?

(We've all got it coming to us, but some more than others, some sooner than others.)

So act! Be! Look before you leap, but once you've seen, jump! And either stick to your principles or abandon them because compromises have a way of compounding, don't you know, old boy, I mean, don't you see?

We're all just out to get our piece of the pie. (Haw haw.)

**Next Episode:** Red-handed, part one


	7. Episode 6: Red handed, part one

_Episode: Red-handed, part one  
__Primary Author: Insomniac By Choice  
__Secondary Author: KefkaFloyd_

_____

* * *

_

**Darcia Platform of the Middle-Esper System  
The Eastwood Disc Company (Dead Red Front)  
2150 GFST  
15-12-07 GFSD**

"I read over the information you gave me on this contract Mack, and I don't know…" Revlen Yomo wavered, causing the Dead Red underboss sitting across the desk to raise a weary eyebrow. "This one seems pretty dangerous. It'll take more than a few digits to–"

"What's it gonna take, Revlen? What's it gonna take for me to get you to shut up and take this damn job?" the underboss interrupted, rubbing his graying temples.

The bounty hunter and Dead Red lieutenant were the only two people in the cramped and cluttered office overlooking the factory floor. A strip of one-way glass allowed them to view the factory without fear of being observed back, but neither was particularly concerned with what was going on below.

"We've been doing this long enough to be considered friends, right?" Mack said. "Why should we haggle like a couple of Jorgs at a flea market? By the time we finally settle on a price, the contract will've long expired, anyway."

Revlen looked much better than Mack these days, though they were roughly the same age. Part of it was that Humans deteriorated so fast in general, but lifestyle mattered, too. After moving behind a desk, Mack's paunch had turned fully into a gut. Revlen still had to hunt for his meals, something Mack seemed to forget now and again.

"You're right," Revlen agreed as he put his boots up on the desk and leaned back in his chair with his hands behind the frill of his head. "I tell you what, since we're old friends and everything I'll go easy on you. I'll take three million, and not a Yire more." Mack opened his mouth to speak, but it was Revlen's turn to interrupt. "No, no. Don't bother to increase your offer; I won't accept it."

"Aren't you a saint," the underboss muttered. "But go on, explain to me how you could _possibly_ ask me for three million, when you know perfectly well that the million I was _going_ to offer you is nothing less than glorified charity."

"A million? Goddess, you aren't just trying to _break_ my balls, you want me _castrated_."

"I want you to be reasonable."

"Look, Rawls is being kept in a platform safehouse, right?" Revlen said as he took his boots off of the desk and leaned forward.

"Right."

"So _reasonably_ if I'm going to equip for a job like that, I'll need _at least_ a million Yire just to get all the stuff together. Rawls testifies against you guys via viewscreen in two days so that's going to make it more expensive to get all the stuff together in time to stop him. Then I'm going to need _another_ million for whatever expenses come from repairing my suit or—the Goddess forbid—myself. And then the rest is the actual payment, the cost of me risking my life."

"The life of a sand fiend isn't worth a dozen Yire, and if you weren't putting a dune up your nose every day, the 1.2 million I'm giving you would be more than enough."

"One-point-two, huh?" Revlen repeated, rubbing his wrinkled chin. "At least you're moving in the right direction. Baby steps, though. Without dropping into the red on this, the lowest I can go is two and a half million."

"Get the fuck out of here," the Dead Red exclaimed as he pointed at the exit, prompting Revlen to stand up and do just that. "Okay, okay, 1.4 is the best I can do!" Mack called after Revlen as he opened the door. "And that's two hundred thousand out of _my_ _personal_ Fisks, Revlen."

Revlen pretended to ignore the underboss as he left the room and started down the steps. Playing his part in the ritual, Mack stood and went after him. They'd only settled a contract inside the office twice, but Revlen had only turned one down outright. The way this one was heading, Revlen figured he wouldn't even get down the steps before Mack's actual final offer was given.

"Hey you!" Mack yelled out instead, and Revlen spun back around, surprised at the break in habit. But Mack was pointing over Revlen's shoulder at the floor beyond. "Yeah, you in the big-ass exoskeleton," Mack went on.

Revlen didn't appreciate changing the topic from him and his money to, well, anything else, but unable to resist, he turned to look, too.

Even though the factory was a front, it served as a legitimate business. Machines and men cluttered the length and breadth of the building, but even so, it was clear who Mack was referring to; the man in the armor stood out like a red and gold sore thumb on the work floor. An impish Malakian was behind him trussed up in electrobinds, dispelling any doubts Revlen might have had about the man's occupation. The space boy was delivering a bounty, and by the looks of things, the pair of Xions nearby were receiving it.

"Shut up. Can't you see he's busy?" the elder of the two Xions spat back at Mack. Revlen recognized him as Roft the Elder, another underboss of the Dead Reds. "We're conversating over here. You can talk to him when I get done."

"Feel free Papa Roft. Handle your business as you like," Mack replied, voice drenched in syrup.

"I don't need your blessings, and I didn't ask–"

"Excuse me," the hunter interrupted to address Roft. The voice he used was heavily modified by a voxcoder, and Revlen felt immediate contempt for the coward. "What do you plan to do with this bounty once he's in your care?"

"That doesn't have anything to do with you," Roft answered.

"All the same," the armored bounty hunter said, "I'd like to know."

"Fine. We're going to give this little shit the worst three days of the rest of his short life," Roft said.

"Then I would ask that you promptly execute him, instead," the bounty hunter said. "According to the contract you were willing to accept him in body only; I would ask that you consider killing him and ending the matter as quickly as possible."

"And I would ask that you consider shutting your fucking mouth," Roft spat, "and just collect your money."

"Despite what you may think," the bounty hunter said, "I didn't bring this bounty back for my health, and I'm not here because I enjoy the pleasantry of _your_ company. The problem, Xr., is you've shown me nothing to collect."

"You know, you've got a smart mouth for such a damn idiot. Hey Nyson," Roft said to the larger, younger Xion behind him, "give him his money and grab the little shit he's got with him. Better take the worm out of here before we start working him over lest we _offend _our pretty space boy's_ sensibilities_."

Nyson handed the bounty hunter a Fisk, then enthusiastically started to take hold of the Malakian. The bounty hunter looked up from the Fisk and stuck out an arm—most of it covered by a cannon—stopping the large Xion before he could grab the Malakian.

"This isn't enough," the bounty hunter said. Nyson tried to shove the armored arm out of the way but it didn't even budge. Nyson ducked under it instead, but as he did, the arm's elbow came down on the crown of his head, and he crumpled to the floor. The hunter put a foot on his chest of the unconscious Xion to hold him down.

"Listen asshole," Roft said, ignoring Nyson, "you brought back the guy who killed my son and for that, I'm grateful. I really am. But I don't like you and when I don't like someone, their life expectancy tends to drop real quick. I'll let this one go on account of my son's memory, but you're making me more and more forgetful, so whatever I say is enough, is enough. You get me, space boy?"

The bounty hunter nodded.

"Yes, I do. But you are forgetting several important things. First of all, my name is 'Samus Aran'. 'Samus'. 'Aran'. Not idiot, not asshole, not space boy, not anything else but 'Samus'. 'Aran'. Second, once you offered that contract and I completed the terms outlined within it, we entered into a legally immutable relationship. You say you're forgetful, and I believe you. That is why I'm reminding you. Because for some reason, quite often people seem to forget to pay me. And I am absolutely sick of it."

"Don't try to–"

"I wasn't finished, Xr. Understand, I am still trying to remind you of the situation, old-timer. I am in a _very_ powerful powered exoskeleton, and as I'm sure you can see, I have a cannon on my right arm. You, on the other hand, are a tired old man with nothing but a flimsy bit of cloth for protection and that low-intensity pistol you seem to think is hidden in your breast pocket. Next to me, you are helpless."

"Do you–" Roft stammered. "Do you even know where you are?"

"No, I don't. But knowing that you're an underboss, I suspect I am in a place full of fellow members of your syndicate." The bounty hunter paused for a few moments. "There are 32 people within the immediate area. Twenty-four of these are carrying weapons and of them, only one has a weapon strong enough to knock me off of my feet. He is not, however, in a position that would allow him to take a shot at me, nor would he get the opportunity to do so if he tried. I can safely say that if provoked, I could end the lives of everyone in this building and walk away without chipping a flake of my armor's paint."

"You're bluffing, _Samus Aran_. Even a white class bounty hunter couldn't pull that off, and you're on the blue side of being a green."

"So long as I wear this suit, I never have to lie or bluff. But assume for the moment that I am. Tell me, do you think, as close as you are to me right now, that anyone could stop me if I wanted to—just for example, mind you—grab you round the head and squeeze until it popped? If you don't think I'm quite crazy enough to do it, you don't know what three months worth of Yemen Noodles can do to a person's sanity. Now, do you get_ me_, Xr. Roft?"

Everyone in the shop watched the situation now, so obviously the elder Xion couldn't yield and walk away, but Revlen also saw that the bounty hunter was right. Maybe not about taking out everyone in the shop, but certainly about no one being able to stop him from killing the underboss. So the two glared at one another, height and girth about equal, but Roft's gaze, however poisonous, couldn't penetrate Samus Aran's reflective visor.

"Papa Roft, what was the bounty you offered for the return of your kid's killer?" Mack asked in a bright tone, interrupting the stare down.

"Ten million," the Xion grumbled, keeping his eyes on Samus.

"Did the nice bounty hunter bring the Malakian in under the terms?" Mack said.

"Yeah."

This time Mack's voice was sharp.

"Then stop your bitching, pay the space boy, and leave with the Malakian. This is my place, and I've got more important things than watch the two of you bicker over who has the bigger dick. If you can't pay up, though," Mack continued, "I don't mind pitching in to help, but next time you might want to make sure you don't offer more than you have to give, eh?"

This time Roft's glare fixed on Mack, but Mack kept smiling. They hated each other, Revlen knew, but Mack was one of the few people Roft couldn't order around, so there was little he could do but pay the hunter the full amount and leave, humiliated. The Xion would have quite a lot of frustration to work out, and unfortunately for the bounty, he was the nearest cat to kick. The Malakian seemed to reach the same conclusion.

"Please Samus, don't let them take me!" the bounty shouted as Samus received another Fisk and took his foot off of Roft's recently awakened thug. Nyson got up and sneered, but quickly grabbed the bounty by the collar and started dragging him off, Xr. Roft following behind them. "It's not my fault!" the Malakian bounty continued to cry. "There was nothing I–"

"Quiet, you," Samus ordered and surprisingly the bounty did just that. "Accept your consequences with serenity and dignity. Meditate on what awaits you beyond the temporal and prepare yourself for the moment when your soul and body are parted."

"I hope you meditate often, Rancore," Roft announced before they were completely out of earshot. "Thanks to Samus, you're going to be alive for _months_ before your soul leaves you, I _guarantee_ it."

Samus stood there in the middle of the shop floor and said nothing, did nothing, in response. But Revlen knew what the hunter was thinking, because it was the same thing he'd thought before himself about Underboss Roft.

Eventually, Samus turned and came toward Revlen and Mack, and the factory went back to its normal routine.

"What do _you_ want?" Samus asked Mack, stopping at the bottom of the stairs. Revlen was trapped between the two of them so he figured he'd lean against the side rail and watch the entertaining performance sure to follow.

"Just some of your time," Mack said. "An ear to listen to what I have to say and an open mind to consider it."

"I think I've had enough of your kind."

"My kind? Oh, don't take that old fart as a representative of all Dead Reds. He's a Xion, and everyone knows what savage bastards they are. Still stuck in the old days where people dealt with problems by shoving them out of airlocks. No, thankfully he's a dying breed. I just want to talk with you."

"Talk with me."

"And you to listen. That's all. I have a problem, and I need someone to take care of it. I was offering the job to this fine fellow," Mack said, jerking a thumb toward Revlen, who smiled broadly at the acknowledgment, "but he doesn't seem to want it. I know you've just received ten million—with a little of my help, I don't mind mentioning—but I also know that that particular job was an open bounty, and in your trade, ten million can go awful quick if you don't keep pulling in steady earnings."

"I can find jobs on my own. I don't need your help."

"You're right. You don't need my help to be a nobody your whole life; you can do that just fine by yourself. But if you want to get to the top, you've got to get opportunities, got to get connections. Nothing else makes a bit of difference. Hard work? Hey, everybody works hard. Think you've got talent? Talent's a Yire a dozen. So maybe you think you'll get lucky? Well, luck is only made or found in hindsight. In the real world—and believe me, they're all real worlds—nobody gets anywhere without knowing the right people."

"Let me guess: you're the right people."

"Exactly. And they say bounty hunters are idiots." Mack glanced at Revlen, but Revlen didn't rise to it. "See, Dead Reds always have work for bounty hunters. Do one job, it leads to another. Do that one, and there's something else waiting for you. Do enough of them, and if you want to join a major guild, we'll put in a good word for you. And when we talk, guilds listen, and they listen good. Of course you can just keep taking jobs from us, too. For this one, we'll pay you 500,000, and that matches what you'd expect from most guilds. "

"I've talked with you and listened as well," Samus said. "But what I didn't hear is exactly what you'll be paying me to do."

"It takes a good ear to hear what hasn't been said."

"And a poor tongue not to say it."

"Sometimes a poor tongue is better than a loose one," Mack said. "Right now, in fact, I know a man who knows too much and speaks too freely. Regrettably, he's surrounded by people who want to hear what he has to say. I'm not fond of gossip or gossipers, and I wouldn't mind it if he didn't get a chance to chat about the wrong things. Do your good ears catch my meaning?"

"They do. But speak plainly and without euphemism."

"Then you're smart, but no fun," Mack sighed. "There's a man who's going to testify against some Dead Reds in a couple of days. He's being protected, and I'd like him dead. Deceased. Kaput. Is that plain enough?"

"Too plain. I'm a not a dog to lunge at a stranger's throat on command. If you want someone dead, kill him yourself."

"I think you misunderstand the whole concept of money, Samus. You have it so you _don't_ have to do anything yourself. Besides, a moment ago you said you wanted to kill everyone in this building. I just want to change your target and actually pay you for it."

"I said what I was _able_ to do, not what I _wanted_ to do," Samus clarified, "I don't enjoy killing people who've never offended me."

"Not even for money?"

"Especially not for money. I'm not a whore."

"Well I'm not asking you to suck his cock, I'm asking you to kill him."

Samus said nothing. Mack sighed again.

"Okay, what if you just made it possible for… someone else to kill him? As the recent scene proved, no matter how gruesome it might turn out, being indirectly responsible for murder doesn't seem to bother you too much."

Revlen couldn't take it any more.

"Look, Mack, I get your point. Very funny. You can stop stringing the guy along now. I'll shut up and stop haggling. One-point-four million Yire, yes, I accept. Don't worry, I'll take care of it."

"Now Mr. Yomo," Mack said as he tilted his head in Revlen's direction, "that would have been very nice to hear about five minutes ago, but I'm talking to Samus Aran now. And if Samus Aran wants to take care of it, what do I need you for?"

" You heard him; the pussy doesn't like killing people, and you need the snitch dead."

"He's got a good point, Samus," Mack said, tilting his head back to the armored bounty hunter. "Not to suggest that you lack the necessary genitalia to handle this yourself, but would that be an acceptable arrangement? You and he go in together and blow everyone to hell, then he takes care of my loose-tongued problem?"

"Yes," Samus said. "I could do that."

"Okay, good," Mack smiled and clapped his hands together. "I'll have our audio turn this verbal contract into an official dead-or-alive bounty, and when you're done, you'll both get 500,000."

"What?" Revlen protested, "I should get a million, at least."

"No, the _job_ is worth a million, Revlen. You split the job, you split the money. If you didn't want to split the money, you should have taken it earlier."

"Fine, 500,000 it is," Revlen spat. Damn it. He should have quit haggling at the door, "But I still want my advance."

Mack rolled his eyes and pulled out three Fisks. He transferred the proper Yire from one to the others and tossed them at the two bounty hunters, who both caught them easily.

"I'll need the specific information at some point," Samus pointed out after glancing at the Fisk.

"Of course," Mack agreed. "Revlen already has the info about this contract in his possession. I'm sure he'll be happy to make you a copy. Then the two of you can work out how you want to take care of everything. Any problems with that?" Revlen opened his mouth to protest but Mack ignored him. "Good. Now get it done."

* * *

**Celastrus Hotel  
2127 GFST  
16-12-07 GFSD**

Revlen sat at the window of the third story room while he took puffs from his sand pipe and looked across the street at the imposing Darcian safehouse. When courage was lacking, there was no better place to find some than the end of a lit pipe. Not that he was _afraid_ of this mission, of course. He'd heard some pretty nasty things about what Darcian guards enjoyed doing to people who messed with them, but that was more or less standard for all fiefdom security. Even as underarmed and underprepared as knew he was, he didn't _need_ to smoke. Having the divine sand pump through his veins gave him an edge he might not have any other way, that was all. But that edge could be the difference between a successful payment and oblivion.

He took a deep puff.

Of course his new partner didn't need to smoke to have an edge. Samus had that fucking suit of his, and that might as well have been crafted by the hand of the Goddess Herself. Revlen had never seen anything like it. Samus's wasn't that much bigger than his own exo, but Samus wore a full suit. A _full_ suit. Revlen's partial powered exoskeleton had always gotten the job done before, and he would never choose to sacrifice the maneuverability of a partial suit for the protection of a full one, but Samus didn't have to sacrifice _anything_. And the way he moved in it, it might as well have been his very skin. So fluid.

Revlen took a puff and held the smoke in his lungs until they burned, then exhaled.

Fluid enough to have stolen his 500,000 Yire right from under him. No, more than that. Revlen knew Mack by now, knew how to work him. He could have gotten the Red up to two million, easy. Then Samus had come along and ruined all of it. Bastard. Making him wait like this, too.

Samus claimed he could scan the building and track of everything inside it, even through the thick, nearly two-story wall that surrounded the complex and through the building's walls themselves. Revlen would have called Samus on his nonsense, but Samus had given him a couple of demonstrations as proof and Revlen had done a piss poor job of pretending not to be impressed. Samus was lucky to be a red class and lucky to be working for Reds, but he acted as arrogant as any guild bounty hunter. Guildsmen faggots. Samus would probably end up a guildsman one day, if only because of that suit he had.

Revlen wondered if it had a clock in it. They'd agreed to meet here before they went in, but Aran still hadn't shown up. If Samus took any longer, Revlen would–

"I have arrived," blared the headset on the table beside him.

Revlen filled his lungs with the smoke once more before putting the pipe out, setting it down on the table, and putting the headset on.

"Okay, Samus, good," Revlen said as he adjusted the volume of the audio receiver. "Where are you now?"

"Beneath your window, looking at the safehouse."

"Okay… How did your surveillance go?"

"I'm doing it now."

"All right," Revlen said, taking his headset off and picking up his lighter. "Just tell me when you get done."

"I'm done."

"Well aren't you just wonderful…" Revlen put the headset back on and set the lighter down again. He walked to the closet where he stored his equipment. "Okay, tell me about it while I put on my gear."

"There are 17 guards in the buildings wearing powered exoskeletons," Samus said while Revlen put on his padded, full-body underarmor, "but only two of them are wearing full exoskeletons. The rest have partial exoskeletons of a slightly better quality than your own."

"Yeah, well it's _who's_ wearing the suit that matters, not what the quality is."

"So you say," Samus responded in that gratingly neutral tone of his. "In addition to these, nine more carry high intensity rifles and low grade pistols that are presumably secondary weapons. As you guessed, all civilians have gone home for the night and our bounty is the only witness being protected. Twenty-seven people in the building, 26 of them guards."

"That's not too bad. What about their positions?" Revlen asked, slipping the hard chest armor over his head and fastening it until it was tight. "How many of them would we have to deal with to get to Rawls?"

"That depends on the route taken and their response time."

"Really? You think?"

Samus didn't answer for a while, and Revlen worked on snapping his hard forearm and bicep armor into place. He knew from experience only his chest armor was strong enough take a direct shot, but these were strong enough for anything less than that; unless someone used a pulse rifle, he wouldn't lose the whole arm.

"I was just answering what you had asked," Samus finally said. Revlen almost thought he sounded embarrassed. "I can't say for certain how many guards we'll come across. We haven't decided on a route yet."

"Don't be a dumb ass," Revlen growled as he snapped on the flexible joint armor over his elbows. "You know the floor plan, Rawls's location, and where the guards are, so _you _know the route. It's always the path of least resistance. We're going to try to get in quietly as far as we can, then hope we can make it to Rawls and get back out in all of the confusion without getting ourselves killed."

"Without getting _yourself_ killed, you mean."

"Yeah, without getting _myself_ killed, I mean." Revlen rolled his eyes and slipped his shocklet gloves over his hands. They didn't have any armor on them, but if all else failed, they would quite literally pack a punch. "You know, with an attitude like that, you aren't going to get far in this trade, Samus. Nobody's invincible."

"So you say."

He stepped into his powered legsuit and activated it. He'd gotten one of the lighter models, but customized it so that almost all of his lower body was covered by some amount of armor. It was good. Functional. Dependable. But it wasn't Samus's suit.

"I had a partner once," Revlen said.

"Oh?"

He finished placing his helmet on and snapped it into place where neck joints met his chest armor. His hands and the top of his ribs were the only things without any hard armor, but only his chest and legs were really protected. Hopefully, if anyone got a good shot at him, they'd aim for his chest and not his head.

"My old partner was a good man to have in a firefight, but I just couldn't get past his mother. I've never met a worse shrew than that one. And then of course there was the incest between them."

"I… see."

"Yeah," Revlen said as he slung the strap of his tri-service rifle over his shoulder and checked the storage spaces on his legs to make sure he had enough ammunition for all three firing modes. He did. "Yeah my partner was a mother-fucking son-of-a-bitch if there ever was one. And I'm ready."

"I know. And feel free to spare me pointless vulgarity from now on."

"'Feel free to spare me pointless vulgarity from now on'," Revlen mimicked, though he'd made sure to turn off his audio first. He turned it back on, "I've got my visor on now, send me the floor plan." It appeared before his eyes. "Black dots are guards in full suits, red dots partial, green dots without?"

"Correct."

"Then I'll assume the blue dot in the middle of the third floor is Rawls and the yellow is... you?"

"Correct."

"And you took care of the automated security, right?"

"It's disabled, yes."

"Okay. Then it looks like if we can take out the two guys on the outside quiet enough, we can probably get in and surprise the guard at the desk before he can call in reinforcements from the rest of the platform. Maybe we'll buy ourselves some time on the inside, and be able to get through the other guards together before they can get Rawls in lockdown. Then hopefully we'll get back out before anyone else shows up. It still won't be easy going, but no way they're expecting this to happen right now, so that has to give us the advantage."

Revlen noticed the yellow dot moving across the street. Samus was walking straight for the main gates.

"Samus," Revlen said in shock, "what are you doing?"

"Going inside."

"They're going to see you." Samus didn't respond, and Revlen felt like he had to state the obvious in case the idiot didn't get it. "If they do that, we can't sneak inside."

"Mr. Yomo, this suit was not designed for sneaking, I assure you."

Revlen felt like saying something back, but he couldn't think of anything. Instead, he walked to the window and stared as Samus did something so unbelievably stupid— Didn't he realize he was going to fail the contract for both of them? Samus wasn't just stealing Revlen's million Yire contract, he was stealing everything but Revlen's meager advance… Unless Samus completed the contract all on his own. Then Mack would never hire Revlen again, at least not for anything meaningful or worth doing.

Revlen cursed.

No, there was no way Samus could do this on his own. Nobody was that good, no _suit_ was that good.

But that was a damn good suit.

As proof, Samus vaulted over the main wall and fired two shots while in the air. He descended out of sight, and Revlen waited to hear the return fire, but none came. Had Samus gotten both of them with just one shot a piece? Revlen watched the yellow dot approach the front door and a moment later heard a sound he assumed was that of the front door getting kicked down. No, it couldn't be. Safehouse doors were made to withstand much more than the force one powered suit could generate.

The green dot representing the guard at the front desk didn't move as Samus came closer, meaning he'd been taken care of as well. Three guards, like it was nothing.

But several other guards must have heard it, including one of the ones in a full exoskeleton, because on the second floor a group of six of them began moving toward the stairs to come down and intercept Samus. Wait. Revlen's suit didn't have anything that could keep track of targets like this in real time, not through walls and not this far away. Did that mean… Samus was transmitting it to him as all of this happened? While normal system process went on? No one's suit could be that good.

The five guards in partial suits had stopped moving as soon as they'd come into a line of sight with Samus, but the one in full suit was still up and going. Suddenly, Revlen heard a terrific explosion and the blips and outlines on his visor vanished. He focused his eyes on the actual safehouse once again and saw Samus's back pressed up against what remained of the second-floor window. Smoke filled the hallway beyond. The guard in the full suit emerged from the middle of the smoke and fired another shot from his… what was that, an M2 or 3 grenade launcher? Whatever model it was, the explosion was just as loud as the first had been, and Samus could only manage to cover his face with his arms before the shell landed on him and pushed him out of the window, eventually to the ground below. The wall hid Samus from Revlen's sight again, but he saw the guard walk forward until he was at the edge of the window. He pointed his grenade launcher down, aiming it at Samus.

Revlen clutched for his rifle to pull it up and shoot the guard, but then he remembered who it was the guard was aiming at. Samus's life was at stake, not Revlen's. But if Revlen revealed his own position without taking a good shot, he could very well be in danger as well. Revlen grinned. Better take his time and make sure he hit his target. He checked to make sure his tri-service rifle was in high-velocity mode, then pressed it to the glass of the window, right on top of where the guard's head was.

Wait for it.

Wait for it.

The guard fired at the ground and an explosion followed. While the sound still reverberated, Revlen fired his rifle. The guard's helmet crumpled inward as he fell out of the hallway and onto the ground outside. Perfect shot.

The rifle shot had blown out most of Revlen's window, and he broke what little was left before jumping down on to the street and running across it. Someone had to have noticed what was going on, but if they had, the reports would say nothing about him, just some guy in a red and gold powered suit. Revlen could probably get inside and get away with killing Rawls even easier now. And he could get full credit from Mack. Too bad about Samus, though, he'd tell Mack. Then he'd use Mack's own words against him and collect a million for completing the job by himself. Thanks to good old generous Samus.

Revlen got to the wall and his leg suit launched him over it—though with significantly less grace than Samus had managed—and safely into the safehouse grounds. Now he just had to go in and upstairs there would be Rawls, waiting in one of those rooms to take a bullet between the eyes.

Yeah, right there. That blue dot in the room…

Revlen stopped as he realized what seeing the dot on his display meant and turned to see Samus sitting up relatively unharmed amid a pile of desolation. If it wasn't for all of the ash covering him, Revlen wouldn't have been able to tell something had happened to Samus at all.

"Holy shit," Revlen exclaimed. "Samus, you're alive."

Samus looked in his direction and took a few moments to respond.

"Yes."

"Are you okay?" Revlen recovered. "That was one hell of a shot you just took."

"Several hellish shots, yes. I'm fine. Shallah, I saw him coming, I just wasn't fast enough. I should have been, but I just wasn't."

"I… think you did all right. How many guards did you take out? Six?"

"Eight. And I didn't do 'all right'. If it wasn't for you, I would be dead now. Thank you. It was rude of me not to have said so earlier."

"It was nothing. Really."

Samus stood up and looked up at the third floor.

"You were right, I think," Samus said, "stealth was probably a better option, at least in this instance. But that may be a little late now."

"Yeah," Revlen agreed, doing his best not to laugh. What a complete idiot. "Yeah, just a little."

"How would you like to handle this from now on? I seem to have proven I'm incapable."

"We'd better do something quick," Revlen said. "Now that you've gone and riled everybody up, your plan seems the most fitting. They'll be on the alert now, but if you can make it into that third-story window, you can probably catch a couple with their thumbs up their asses."

"And you?" Samus asked.

"I'll go in where you just came out and go up the stairs, meet you there. You can go first, by the way. If someone's going to take abuse, I'd rather it be the one whose suit can hold up to it."

"Ha. Done and done."

Samus crouched and leapt into the air. Still on his way up, Samus fired several shots from his cannon and broke out the third-story window before letting his momentum carry him inside.

Revlen waited a few moments as he glanced between the dots on his display and the flashes coming from the window. After enough dots moved toward Samus or stopped moving altogether, Revlen jumped up to the grenade-widened window and pulled himself inside. He got up and shouldered his rifle, switching it from HV to heavy slug for stopping power as he tramped toward the stairwell.

As he climbed up the flight of stairs and approached the third floor, Revlen caught a glimpse of two of the guards sitting with their backs against the wall, looking out the open door. From the display, Revlen had assumed Samus had already gotten them both, but they were just hiding. They didn't see Revlen at first and when they did, it was too late. Revlen grinned and fired five times, hitting one of the guards twice, the other just once. But that was enough. The first guard was already dead, the other crying in agony, but no threat.

Revlen kept moving until he got to the top of the stairs. As he looked down the hallway, he saw about ten guards strewn this way and that as if struck by a strong terrestrial wind, but it was a bloodless scene. Samus didn't like killing people, Revlen reminded himself.

He headed toward the room his visor's display showed Rawls to be in, but the walls looked much thicker on it than the others. Hmm, so they'd gotten Rawls to one of the secure rooms. Damn. Revlen saw Samus standing in front of the heavy door, but not doing anything. Revlen checked his display again and saw that there were five guards clustered around Rawls, including the remaining guard in the full exoskeleton.

"What's the matter, Samus?" Revlen said over the audio. "There's just five of them; I thought you said you could handle the whole building by yourself."

"I learned my lesson the last time, thank you. Right now, they have the advantage. Once I knock open the door, I can only fire at three of them before they begin to return fire. I don't have a weapon that can hit multiple targets; you do. I'm not usually patient, but in this instance you are worth the wait."

"Oh?" Revlen said as he switched the ammo in his rifle to the third mode and walked up to the door. "I seem to remember that you were the one who was late showing up to begin all of this and made _me_ wait."

"Perhaps. But waiting is fullness."

"Yeah, whatever, hippie. Do your thing, and I'll do mine."

Samus kicked open the door and Revlen fired, then both moved out of the way. A hail of fire came from the inside but it stopped an instant before the explosive pellets Revlen had fired detonated. The explosion was relatively small, but Samus followed it immediately and did as he had promised. Three blasts came from his cannon and finished off whoever was still a threat.

As the smoke cleared, Samus walked inside, and Revlen came right behind. Rawls was huddled in the corner, frightened and looking like he'd pissed himself, but otherwise all right. Samus had stopped, transfixed by the two guards who hadn't been wearing powered suits and no longer had what could rightly be described as feet or legs.

"Hello Rawls. Recognize me?" Revlen asked as he got in front of their bounty and squatted down.

Rawls began to stutter incoherently before finally giving up and just shaking his head.

"I'm the cheerful reaper, Rawls. And my friend there, well, he's the red devil. See, you've done a bad thing, Rawls, and we're here to see that you get justice."

"Oh ohhh God! Don't–"

Revlen turned on his shocklet and punched Rawls in the stomach. Revlen thought he heard a rib break, but more importantly, Rawls lost his breath and fell over onto his back, clutching his belly in pain.

"Will you shut up? I'm trying to give you an epiphany and you're ruining it. In a second, you won't even think that hurts, I swear." He switched his ammo back to HV. "Damn it, what was I saying again? Oh, right. I don't know how anyone could be stupid enough to think they could cross Dead Reds and get away with it, but apparently you are, and I think you realize that now." Revlen stood up and pulled his rifle's trigger. The end of the barrel was nearly touching the bounty's abdomen but a little red hole was all that appeared on Rawls's stomach. Of course by the amount of blood on the floor underneath, there was a much larger hole in his back. Perfect. Rawls gasped and began to cry but he didn't make a sound. Or if he did, it was quiet enough that the moans of legless guards covered it up.

"Enjoy your final moments of enlightenment," Revlen said, staring into Rawls's wide, white eyes. "After all, they're all you have left."

Revlen stood back up and turned around to see Samus looking at him. Or was he? Coward hiding behind a mask.

"What?" Revlen demanded.

"You didn't have to do that," Samus said, his voice still shielded by the voxcoder but probably angry. Revlen resisted the impulse to scream at Samus to take off the helmet and actually _say_ something.

"One of us did, or else we aren't getting paid. That's why I was brought along, remember?"

"You could have killed him quickly, painlessly. This, this isn't right."

"No, this is nothing, and as long as we're on contract, we're Nobody," Revlen said as he walked past Samus, moving toward the door. "Legally, spiritually, whatever you want to call it. We are agents of someone else's desires. Morality isn't our concern, _money_ is."

Samus stood where he was, but kept his gaze locked on Rawls.

"That doesn't give us the right to engage in wanton cruelty. This man does not deserve this."

"I wonder," Revlen mused as he peeked out the door and looked down the hallway. "What do you think he did that was bad enough to get pressured into being a witness against the Reds? He had to know the danger he was in so whatever it was must have been worth the risk to him. Think he got a murder fine wiped away if he testified? Or maybe it was just rape."

Revlen looked back over his shoulder and saw the other bounty hunter waver. Samus turned to take a step toward the door then looked back at Rawls, now lying almost still on the floor.

"Samus, we gotta to get to the gone. If you want to play angel of mercy, do it now. If not, let's _go_," Revlen said, before adding, "Don't waste that life of yours I saved."

He didn't check to see Samus's response to that and instead went down to the window Samus had come in by. Looking down, he saw no security rollers, though he thought he could hear several coming from far off. The quicker he left, the better.

He let himself fall to the ground then ran a few steps and launched himself over the wall. As he landed on the outside, he looked both ways but at this time of night, no one was out. He grinned and started walking away slowly, head hung low. Just another down on his luck bounty hunter out roaming the streets, looking for work.

Easiest money he'd ever made.

* * *

**~See You Next Mission~**

* * *

When your stomach growls, it's your eyes that get hungry. But you can't use them to eat, so be sure you don't bite off more than you can chew. Thief! Thief! You got caught looking, and that's a sin. Covet with your eyes, and it's a matter between you and your God. Covet with your hands, and you get them chopped off. But once you get a taste, your stomach just growls louder. There's not much else you can do but grab.

**Next Episode:** Red-handed, part two


	8. Episode 7: Red handed, part two

_Episode: Red-handed, part two  
__Story Idea: "Jesus" (referred to as such by request)  
__Primary Author: Insomniac By Choice  
__Secondary Author: KefkaFloyd_

_______

* * *

_

**Darcia Platform of the Middle-Esper System  
The Vidna Obmana  
0500 GFST  
18-12-07 GFSD**

Revlen Yomo roamed the streets and back alleys of Darcia's red-light district for a few hours with no set destination in mind, you know, just in case someone had decided to try to tail him or whatever. He wasn't paranoid, but that didn't mean people weren't out to get him. He was patient. He could flush out anyone trying to follow him. Anyone.

So when he was sure he was in the clear, he left the sand den he'd wandered into—just to smoke out any would-be tails, of course—and made his way up toward a small Dead Red hangout that was nearby. Whoever was there would pay him the rest of the contract and then fill him in on whatever new information might be relevant to his situation. Standard procedure. Sometimes things changed while Revlen was at a job, or the resolution had a different effect than intended. It rarely mattered much (to him), but it was something he always did anyway.

Unfortunately, this time it did matter. Darcian nobles had felt that taking a contract to kill a snitch under their protection was a personal insult against _them_. The nobles were looking to punish whoever was involved, especially the two bounty hunters who'd done the actual insulting.

The Dead Red at the hangout explained to Revlen that the Reds had been trying to provoke the Darcians for some time, and the bounty was an excuse for the two parties to finally settle their problems. Revlen's complaints about being used for such a trick fell on deaf ears. He would be generously compensated, the Red assured, but to make sure neither he nor Samus Aran proved a liability to the Dead Reds' Darcian interests, the two hunters would have to pick up their remaining money on the nearby planet Jagara—with a little extra for the helping the Reds and having to travel, of course.

Revlen didn't like the setup much, but he'd never been stiffed payment by the Reds before. Having to leave Darcia was a hassle, but he didn't have any sentimental attachment to the place; he could get everything he wanted somewhere else. So he packed what little personal stuff he had and took it to his ship. All of his worldly possessions were transferred from one location to the other in just two trips. Had he let his mind linger on that thought for long, it might have depressed him.

But in the middle of preparations for departure, fate was apparently serendipitous enough to time it so that he caught Samus doing the very same with his own ship. Revlen was able to see Samus's make, model, and location of spacecraft, and it had seemed almost supernaturally important to him that he remember it.

Now, sitting amid the thick, acrid smoke in the Vidna Obmana's special back room, that knowledge seemed even more crucial, as if part of a divine vision he couldn't fully comprehend. Had he seen the ship at all? Prophecy sometimes revealed what reality could not, and prophecy should always be followed. Yes, he should go to Samus's ship. He should go to Samus's ship and… do what? Why was the location of Samus's ship important? Revlen didn't want to have anything to do with that idiot. That idiot in a shiny suit…

Revlen's eyes opened wide with epiphany.

The smoke burned, and he closed them quickly, but the image in his mind—the vision of what he knew he was supposed to do—would not disappear. Samus didn't appreciate that suit. He'd probably never had anything else. Never had to do bounty work with just a rifle full of ammo, mind full of courage, and veins full of sand. Revlen had. Revlen had for a long time, and as he'd earned the money for a suit of his own, he'd earned the right to a suit like Samus's. He'd earned it, and now it was time for him to collect.

Revlen stood up and almost lost his balance, but managed to stay upright. He'd been laying down too long, got up too quick. Hadn't gotten enough blood to his head. Or something.

As he walked toward the room's only door, someone on the floor rolled over into Revlen's foot and Revlen ended up kicking him. No, it was a woman and she groaned, but didn't react more than that. Bitch. Revlen kept moving. Worthless sand fiends were everywhere these days. Couldn't even walk without bumping into one.

When he opened the door and stepped out, an elderly Vadene rushed over to shut it behind him. Revlen's lip started to curl and his fist ball up, but he restrained both. Just because he was leaving Darcia now didn't mean he was leaving forever. No need to make enemies when it could be avoided.

"Mr. ah– Yomo, is it?" the Vadene sniveled.

"Yeah."

"Will you be coming back for a visit later, or would you like your things to take with you now?"

"Both," Revlen answered, before laughing. The Vadene wore a puzzled expression on his face, but then Revlen didn't expect him to catch the joke. "I need all of my gear right now. I just got a new contract I need to take care of."

"But I thought that your ah– communication receiver was with the rest of your things?"

"Not all messages can be heard by a piece of technology, friend," Revlen said as he started putting on his equipment. "Or ears, for that matter."

"Very true, Mr. Yomo, very true."

* * *

**Darcia Platform of the Middle-Esper System  
Docking Bay 56-D  
0525 GFST  
18-12-07 GFSD**

Revlen couldn't reach the docks fast enough. He was possessed by a force, one that took hold of him and dragged him forward without patience, thus he could have no patience himself. He bumped into people who wouldn't move quickly enough and it took everything he had to not let his leg suit take off on a sprint. It seemed to be possessed by the same force he was and only action—only force—would exorcise them.

He passed through the last security checkpoint and into the docks, dotted with all kinds of people moving everywhere. They were impeding his purpose, and that wouldn't do. When he spotted Samus's ship he _did_ sprint—all of the cluttered people jumped out of his way—but he came up short as he realized he didn't know what he was going to say. He should've been working on a story of some kind, but he hadn't, and now he was dumbfounded. His mind was moving impossibly slow even as his body rushed along on autopilot. He looked up at the smooth hull of the ship and opened his mouth, trying to find the right words, but he couldn't. Instead, his leg suit moved on its own and Revlen with it a second later, his body outpacing his mind as it ran up the extended ramp and through the open door.

_An open door!_ his mind exclaimed a second later. _Samus must have just finished loading,_ _what luck!_ _No. Not luck. Serendipity._

His thoughts finally caught up with his body again, and he got his first glimpse of the ship's interior. It was empty. Sterile. If not for a small door that appeared to lead to another room, Revlen wouldn't have had any reason to believe anyone lived here at all. Funny. Considering all of the earlier bravado, Revlen wouldn't have thought Samus to be a minimalist.

Speaking of which, where was the red devil–?

"What are you doing here?"

Revlen was surprised by the femininity in the voice and turned to see the armored hunter standing across the room, just as tall and resolute as always. Revlen had hoped to catch Samus in leisure. Taking him on while he was already armed—even if Revlen could get the drop on him—would be difficult.

"I'm fine, Samus–" Revlen started, before being interrupted by someone to his left.

"No, over here," the almost girlish voice condescended. "Now nobody is inside that."

Revlen continued turning and followed the girlish voice to its fitting source: a young girl. A young _Human_ girl. Hmm. Revlen studied her for a moment. She was dressed in tight clothing, fairly muscular, and had short, yellow hair. From what he knew of Human tastes, Revlen understood she would be considered attractive, but probably too young to be a flesh girl. Not that it would have surprised him if Samus was one of _those_.

"Is Samus in the back or something?" Revlen asked her pleasantly. He felt like committing violence, but he needed answers, and it wouldn't be necessary, besides.

Her face was a wall of stony blankness, as if she hadn't understood what he'd said. Revlen had noticed the odd inflections in her speech and realized she wasn't used to speaking Standard. But then Revlen figured many buyers preferred their flesh girl's conversational skills to be low.

"Sa-mus," Revlen enunciated more clearly. "The bounty hunter whose ship this is. Is he in the back? Or maybe out on the platform somewhere?"

The girl seemed to understand him that time, and the corners of her mouth twitched upward for a moment, but then returned to their previous impassive positions.

"No," she said. "He isn't."

"I'd planned on seeing him in person…" Revlen mumbled, trying to decide whether he was relieved or disappointed. "But I guess I can just tell you. We're good friends, he and I, but I think we may have left on bad terms. He got banged up pretty bad during our last contract and unfortunately I couldn't save him until _after_ he'd nearly gotten himself killed. I came here to take his suit to get it fixed for him to make up for it, but I was hoping that he'd be here so could I apologize myself. As long as you tell him, though, I guess it's all right."

"That was nice of you and he would be glad to hear you– offered?" the girl said, this time with an upward twitch of her mouth that held for two seconds. "But he likes to take care of himself, I think."

"_You _think. Well,the next time I care what a whore _thinks_," Revlen said, drained of patience and pretenses of kindness, "will be never."

Her face darkened. Apparently she'd understood him well enough that time. Revlen didn't really care. He turned his back on her and started walking toward the empty powered exoskeleton, but suddenly he stopped moving. His arm was caught in something and as he turned around to see what it was, he saw the girl holding his forearm. Even through his armor, her grip felt tight. She obviously didn't realize what she'd just gotten herself into.

"Now you should go," she said. Her expressionless face held a thin mask of tension.

"Oh fine. Do you want to hold on to a Fisk until I bring it back?" Revlen sighed as he pulled an empty one out of his pocket. She relaxed somewhat as her attention shifted to the card in his hand.

As he saw her eyes move off of him and to the card, he tossed it at her face. Quicker than he would have expected, she covered herself with her free hand, but the distraction worked. He followed the card with a fist, low, hard, and surrounded by a powered gauntlet. When the shocklet-covered fist connected with her stomach, he expected her to crumple, but she didn't. She exhaled sharply and doubled over, but stayed on her feet, and kept her hold on his arm. Stubborn thing.

"Come on little girl–" Revlen started to say before a petite fist cut him off. It hurt and he immediately tasted blood, but the punch hadn't been thrown with any breath behind it. She tried to wheeze something to him, in terrible Standard or another language altogether he couldn't tell. Something about her, whether it was her obstinate refusal to let go of his arm or just her terrible accent, irritated him to no end. Almost without thinking, he drew his arm back and threw a haymaker at her—again utilizing his shocklet—and hit her in the crown of her head. As the fist was on its way, he reminded himself that he didn't actually want to _kill_ her, but it was too late to stop. And he did want to.

Revlen half expected her head to pop like a melon, but it held, and inexplicably it was his shocklet that didn't survive the contact. That was what he got for ordering the cheap stuff. But at least it got the job done. The girl finally collapsed and would have fallen over onto the ground—had her unconscious fingers not retained their grip on his arm. Revlen cursed and pried them off, one by one, and at last she fell onto the ground, dead. Or she should have been dead. Her breathing was ragged and that gash on her forehead would need tending to, but she looked like she would actually pull through. Oh well. Revlen turned and went back to the getting suit. Samus could be back any moment. Let him tend to his whore.

A little while later, Revlen managed to get the exoskeleton up over his shoulder, with his leg suit supporting most of the weight, and he carried it down the ramp and off the ship, looking out for anyone coming his way who might look like a Samus Aran. Such a man didn't appear, so Revlen jaunted off into the crowd, whistling a bawdy melody and praising serendipity.

* * *

**Darcia Platform of the Middle-Esper System  
Galactic Federation Military Surplus, Used Bounty Hunting Equipment & Etcetera  
0703 GFST  
18-12-07 GFSD**

Ji-shin sat in the back of the store surfing the Integrated Media Network on his portable viewscreen, praying no one would come into the place and want to buy something. Praying no one would make him have to earn his pay. No matter how easy a job was, nothing was easy enough to make 500 Yire an hour worthwhile. Back when he'd been a kid, he'd thought working at a weapons store was the sweetest job in the Federation, this side of actually hunting down bounties. Then he'd finally gotten a job and found out the truth, found out five _years_ worth of truth. But what could he do? The economy of Darcia was terrible these days and–

"Welcome to _Galactic Federation Military Surplus, Used Bounty Hunting Equipment & Etcetera_," the automatic voice announced cheerily, letting Ji know someone had come through the front entrance. He cursed and disengaged himself from everything, then got up and left the back room. As he came out to the front area, he was surprised to find a disheveled Human girl breathing heavily and bleeding from a wound in her head.

"Are… you okay?" Ji asked as soon as he could think of words to say.

"Fine. I'm fine," she snapped. "The biggest gun you have in. What is it and how much does it cost?"

"Excuse me?"

"What is the biggest gun you can sell immediately to me?"

"Um, well, the XPS-1030 is a ten-class pulse rifle with an M2 grenade launcher built into it," Ji-shin recited automatically, pointing to it on the wall behind him. "But that costs four hundred thousand Yire, plus you'll have to wait a few days for the system to be able to clear your identity."

"Here's _five_ hundred thousand," she said, throwing a Fisk in his face. "That's the payment, _and_ the identification. Now give me my rifle before I take it."

* * *

**Planet Jagara of the Middle-Esper System  
Outskirts of Oakum City, Misery  
****Jameson Brother**s** Auto-Mechanized Repair  
****1:30 Late Hours, Time Zone 5  
****20-12-07 GFSD**

"So what's the problem, sir?" the leather-skinned Human mechanic said as he got up from a short workbench and walked over to meet the meet the bounty hunter. The machine shop was empty except for the mechanic, bounty hunter, and an armory's worth of broken down partial, full, and replacement parts for exoskeletons. Apparently no one else worked there except the one man.

"I can't get it open," Revlen explained as he unhooked the exoskeleton from his own leg suit and set it down on the ground, standing up. Standing up, but still sealed up. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw the mechanic had his hand stuck out as if he wanted to shake, but Revlen ignored it.

"Who'd sell you a powered suit with a security feature like that then not tell you how to get past it?" the hick mechanic said as his hand finally dropped back to his side. The man put on a pair of thin glasses and circled around the suit, looking it up and down.

"I got a bargain on it and didn't feel like asking too many questions," Revlen answered.

"No such thing as a free lunch, boy. You get a bargain one day, you pay for it the next. Economics of living," The mechanic bent down and started running his hand up the leg of the armor from its ankle to its inseam then moved around to the backside and did the same thing up to the shoulders. He whistled and stood back up. "Okay. I'll try to think of something but I can't make any guarantees. This armor don't look too special till you study it close. It's intricate, and to get it open without knowing how is going to take delicacy. Most the suits I work on are on the far side of 20 years old, and more than a few them the far side of 50. I'm used to working with those type so delicacy isn't my specialty. No, if you really want to get this taken care of, I'd suggest you take it into town. "

"That's not an option."

"Trying to keep a secret from the Reds, eh? 'Fraid you won't have much luck with that here. Most of Jagara is their planet and all of Oakum is their town."

"All of Oakum _except_ you, old man. So I hear, anyway," Revlen took a 50,000 Yire Fisk out of a compartment and held it in front of the mechanic's face. "I've got money, and if you didn't already, now you've got free time to get it open. Don't worry about the Reds, that's my job. You just get the damn thing open and then contact _me_. If you tell the Dead Reds about any of this, _then_ you'll have to worry, and I'm a worse enemy to you than the Reds could ever be."

"Then I don't have any worries. I make it my business to stay out of theirs."

"Then _neither_ of us should have any problems. Just fix the goddamn suit."

* * *

**Oakum City  
****Outside the entrance to **_**The Masque  
****11:47 Late Hours, TZ5  
20-12-07 GFSD**_

Revlen stood outside The Masque, shaking. It was a cool night, and if he could get inside maybe he'd get an opportunity to warm himself up a bit. But the bouncers at the entrance wouldn't let him through. Revlen had told them he was there to see the manager, but he'd been waiting at least five minutes since. Felt like an hour. He shivered again. He was still wearing his bounty hunting gear and knew he could probably force his way in if he wanted, but this was a Dead Red club in a Dead Red town. Even if he got in alive, he'd never get back out again. Once he got Samus's suit open, though, everything would change, including his relationship with Reds. People with invincible, top-of-the-line suits didn't have to wear false grins or play nice with anyone.

"Hey Revlen!" a thick, low voice called out, breaking Revlen out of his stupor. He turned around to see a rotund Tulukti coming out of the doors, followed by a pair of large Xion bodyguards, coats bulging with muscles and irregular shapes that formed the outline of pistols. So that was how it was. "Long time no fuckin' see, eh?" the fat Tulukti said.

It took him a moment, but after peering through the wrinkles and peeling off the layers of blubber and time, Revlen found someone he recognized.

"Yeah, well we can't _all_ be lucky enough to land cush jobs like yours, Pero," Revlen said, pasting on his widest smile. "Some of us still have to _work_ for a living, you know."

"_I_ know, but that shows what _you_ know," Pero said as he gave Revlen a bear hug, nearly picking Revlen, equipment and all, up off the ground. Pero let go and took a step back. "The things I gotta do for this job, I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy. Every night I gotta eat a couple kilos of the finest food our chefs can cook up, then I gotta drink my weight in liquor, then to top it all off, at the end of the night, I gotta find the prettiest chick still conscious and nail her till morning or she pass out from exhaustion, whichever and whoever comes first."

"And that's terrible?"

"Who said it was terrible? I just said I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy."

"Ha ha, you bastard. You've put on enough weight to be two people, but you haven't changed a bit." Revlen's laughter trailed off. "So anyway, I was told to come here to collect some money on a contract I recently completed… Would you know anything about that?"

"You haven't changed a bit either, Revlen, damn shame that is. Here." One of Pero's men handed Revlen a fistful of Fisks. "There's a sand den at the corner of Fifth Street and Pilaf called 'The Knot'. Show them your money, and they'll let you in without any trouble. Now get out of here; I have a party to get back to hosting."

"Actually I was planning on just staying here for the night."

Pero stopped, but didn't turn around.

"You mean you found The Knot on your own, and you need a safe place to enjoy your buzz," the Tulukti said. Revlen didn't appreciate the bias of his assumption, accurate though it was.

"I've got money, and I've got to stay around here until Darcia cools down," Revlen pointed out. "Where else could I enjoy my time better than right here?"

"Fine. Just leave your bounty-hunting equipment outside."

"Come on. I'm not going to cause any trouble."

"I know you're not," Pero nearly shouted. "Because you're gonna leave all of your shit outside and come in unarmed or you're gonna find someplace else to go."

"Okay, okay," Revlen agreed. "Can I at least keep on my regular armor?"

"Sure. Whatever. Just don't bother anyone."

"I won't, I won't."

But Pero had already walked back inside. The Xions stayed put and kept their eyes locked on Revlen, hands never moving from the pistol-shaped bulges under their coats. Revlen got the message, but as he started getting out of his leg suit and handing over his own weapons, he knew they'd be getting _his_ message once he got Samus's suit open.

Revlen stripped to his hard armor and underarmor and surrendered all of his visible weaponry. He kept both his shocklets—only one of them good—but despite this, the Xions cleared him to go in. Apparently they hadn't noticed. But even thinking he was completely unarmed, they _escorted_ him in like they expected him to try to steal something or whatever. Like there'd be anything _worth_ stealing anyway.

As Revlen entered the building, though, he found that it was not a typical nightclub and Pero was not a typical manager. The Tulukti had an eccentric streak to him, if he was the one to be credited with this. Rather than prerecorded or synthesized music playing and people dancing madly as part of a pseudo-orgy, there was a full orchestra performing to a masquerade. The bar area was small, and most people not dancing were sitting at tables drinking wine brought to them by waiters. There was something quite classy to it all. Revlen's lip curled.

He looked around for another option. There were seven smaller rooms surrounding the one one he was in, arranged like a large, angular "u" so that there was a sharp turn every twenty or thirty meters to separate one room from the next. Each room's walls had its own color scheme, which could vaguely be seen through the series of tinted windows that marked each, the size of each window getting progressively smaller and narrower from east to west. At the east end was a room of blue with large blue windows, the next room was purple, the next green, orange, white, violet, and last at the west end was black, but with scarlet windows. Oddly, Revlen could see no opening between the room he was in and any of the others except the blue one, so he was forced to go there to escape the masquerade. He needed some privacy, and he wouldn't find it here.

The blue room was decked in blue furniture and carpeting, as well as other minor decorations Revlen wanted no part of, and masked people were everywhere, chatting, giggling, drinking, and making fools of themselves. No privacy here. Revlen continued into the purple room and found a similar situation, but it wasn't quite as crowded and though the people were still enjoying themselves, it seemed much less silly. The green was likewise sparser and more serious. He felt like he was getting somewhere. By the time he made it around to the sixth room of violet, only an elderly couple occupied it, talking to one another in whispers. With joy, Revlen rushed into the black room and found it empty except for a giant, archaically designed ebony clock, complete with a pendulum, no less! But Revlen didn't mind its company. He stretched on a long black couch and took out his pipe, eagerly filling it with the last of his sand and setting it alight. Joy and exuberance flooded through him, and he reclined in it, as satisfied as he might ever be.

He awoke the next moment as the clock began its melodic roar, repeating itself eleven times more. After the first, the orchestra's music fell silent, and by the seventh, Revlen began to realize something was amiss. The silence following the last pendulum strike felt almost supernaturally ominous.

He crept over to the narrow window and put his eye up to it, looking into the main hall. In a vision tinted with scarlet he saw a young Human girl—_the_ young Human girl—talking with Pero in the middle of the dance floor. Talking with him, and holding a cannon of a gun on him.

The girl. If the girl was here, that had to mean…

Samus.

Revlen threw down his pipe and began going to each of the windows in the room, looking around at the masquerade floor. Of course. It was so obvious now. The girl hadn't been some whore, she was Samus's _mate_. That meant _he_ had to be around here somewhere. Samus must have slipped in ahead of her and now he was waiting for Revlen to come out and reveal himself. Revlen cursed. He should have found out what Samus looked like, or better yet, stayed with the girl until Samus had come back so he could have killed the both of them. But it didn't matter that he didn't know what Samus looked like; everyone was wearing a mask anyway. It could be any one of them.

Wait, why should he worry about this? Why should he stick his own neck out just so he could get it shot off. Pero had bodyguards; let them deal with this.

"Revlen Yomo!"

Revlen took a step away from the window and craned his neck to see down the violet room as far as he could. A Xion was running toward him with his gun drawn.

"Revlen, come with me immediately!" the Xion yelled.

Revlen looked out the window then back at the Xion.

"What?" Revlen said.

"I said," the Xion puffed as he stopped at the edge of the black room, "that you need to come with me. That girl says she wants to see you and until she turns the gun off the boss, we aim to please her."

"No problem," Revlen said grinning as he walked up to the Xion. "Does she want me to bring anything with–"

Revlen turned on his shocklet and caught the Xion off guard with a shot to his crotch. A second punch broke the Xion's jaw and put him down for good. And unlike with the girl, this time his shocklet actually _didn't_ break.

"Yeah," Revlen muttered as he bent over and picked up the gun from where the Xion had dropped it, "like I'm going to let you make me your sacrificial lamb just so you can save that lard ass. Fat chance of that."

Revlen laughed at his clever joke then walked back over to the window and pressed the end of the pistol up against the glass, right on top of where the girl's head was. He should have killed her the first time he'd had a chance. Second chances didn't come often but he was getting one now. He took a deep breath. If this didn't get Samus to reveal himself, nothing would.

Revlen fired.

The glass shattered, but the girl was unharmed. The bullet hit Pero in the shoulder instead, and he groaned and fell over. There was a moment of silence and then all hell broke loose. Women shrieked, men ran for cover, and the bodyguards, who had long been standing idle, opened fire on the girl. Again, the girl was unharmed. The masked patrons served as shields, and many went to floor groaning as great Pero had before them.

Revlen backed away from the window and went to sit on the couch. Sounds of gunfire roared continuously, occasionally an explosion broke the monotony, but Revlen didn't care. His only way out of the building was blocked, and if he survived, Samus and/or his girl would be coming this way soon. Revlen was trapped, and all he had was a weak grade pistol to defend himself with. How had he missed, anyway? Revlen turned the gun upside down and checked the brand. It was a "Celt.45". Since when did Dead Reds start carrying knock-offs? The popular joke was that the only safe place when firing a Celt was directly in front of the intended target. A joke with far too much truth it. Goddess, he was doomed.

What to do, what to do.

"Revlen Yomo," a voice shouted, echoing across the halls. A female voice. _That_ female's voice. "Where are you?"

There was no point in waiting for her to come to him; if he stayed where he was, she'd find him soon enough anyway. Very well then. He stood up from the couch. If he couldn't rely on his pistol, he'd just have to hope that serendipity came through for him once again.

"I'm in here, you ugly whore," he yelled as he fired his pistol into the violet room. That got her attention. She dashed around the corner and came into his sight, barging over chairs and couches like they weren't even there. She was moving so fast— He couldn't get a bead on her without his assistance visor, and the pistol's weak sight didn't help. He fired again, but the bullet didn't even come close to hitting her. How could a Human move so quickly?

She stopped, just long enough for his aim to catch back up with her, and she shouldered a very large pulse rifle as easily as though _she_ were the one holding a pistol. But she wasn't. She had a pulse rifle, and _he_ had a pistol—a poor one at that; it was clear who the victor of such an exchange would be. But he had to take the shot—

He didn't get the opportunity. The plasma blast flew out of the end of her gun, searing the air around it and screaming like a banshee. Before he could react, the blast hit him in the lower abdomen and knocked him onto his back. He stared at the ceiling, gasping as the stench of melted plastic flooded into his nostrils. His hard armor had stopped the blast from killing him. The one place in his body he could get hit by a pulse rifle and survive, and she'd shot him there. Praise the Goddess, she'd shot him there. Now all he had to do was sit up and fire a shot or two in her direction, and he'd get out of this alive.

He tried to sit up quickly, but about halfway up, his stomach muscles gave up on him and he sunk back to the floor. He'd gotten a look at her, though. She was walking toward him, but still had the rifle even with his head, muscles firm but showing no signs of strain. Even if he could have sat up, it would have been impossible for him to fire his pistol at her before she shot him again and finished it.

Why hadn't she, by the way?

"Throw your pistol away," she ordered. "Then stand up."

So that was her game. She wanted to torture him a little before she killed him. Fine.

He tossed the gun a few meters away and gingerly stood up. Sand was still in his system, so he didn't feel as much of the pain as he might have otherwise. As Revlen stood, waiting for her next instruction, she threw her pulse rifle away, too, and… raised her fists in a fighter's stance? He stared, unable to get his mind to comprehend this. After a few seconds, she relaxed one of her fists and beckoned him with a gesture that wouldn't have been out of place in one of those bad martial arts holovids. Didn't she see that he had the upper hand here, backup shocklet and all?

"Don't you remember what happened the last time we tried this, little girl?" he sneered, walking slowly toward her, clenching and unclenching his fists. She looked like she'd been well-trained, but there was a difference between training and a real fight. "If you forgot, I don't mind reminding you."

"The last time you came as friendly," she said, walking slowly toward him. "An ambush isn't the same thing as a–"

Revlen didn't care what she had to say so he didn't wait for her to finish. He rushed at her and swung with his shocklet, but she moved out the way before it was even halfway to her, and twice popped him in the face with the back of her hand. It stung, but nothing more, which somehow made it worse. He came back at her with the same hand, but only connected with air. He jabbed, crossed, hooked, uppercut— it didn't matter. Whatever he did, she moved out of the way before his fist got there, sometimes retaliating with a quick slap in the face until his cheeks burn red.

Finally he jabbed at her face, and she made an "x" out of her arms, trapping his punch between her wrists. Knowing he'd gotten _her_ trapped, he threw another punch with his free hand, but it didn't get close either. She just took one of her arms out of the x and blocked his oncoming fist, then, faster than he could keep up with, thumped him hard in the nose. His eyes started watering, and he took a step back, covering his face with his arms.

"It wasn't a fair fight before. Now that it is, the chances of yours are none," she gloated, probably smirking. "Give, and tell me where is the armor."

He wiped his eyes and found her still standing in front of him, not bothering to press her advantage. He'd make her pay for that, pay and _beg_ him for mercy. He took a step forward like he was going to kick her, but instead leaned into it, aiming his shocklet at her temple. Just before it got there, she caught it in an open palm. The shocklet was already on and the room began to smell of charred flesh—hers—but the girl didn't flinch, and kept squeezing until the shocklet shorted out, and Revlen felt the bones in his hand begin to crack. He tried to knee her, but she caught hold of it, too, then tossed him across the room like he was made of paper. He hit the grandfather clock and it broke under him, but his armor absorbed most of his impact. Good thing, too. What got through was more than enough.

"The armor is where, Revlen?" the girl asked him.

He growled and threw a piece of the broken clock at her. She dodged it so smoothly, he almost didn't notice her move. That infuriated him even further, and he threw another piece of wood from the clock at her. She caught it and sent it back at him. It cut open his cheek, just below his eye, but did no other harm. It could have, but she wanted him to know she in was in absolute control. He knew it. Right now, she was getting everything she wanted.

"The armor is where?"

"Fuck you," he spat as he tried to get back to his feet, trying to deny her something, anything, and earn himself a small victory.

She ran at him and hit him in the nose with a sledgehammer. That must have been what she'd done, because there was no way a fist that size could have hit him as hard as hers did. A sledgehammer, or an anvil. Or something. But not just a fist. Whatever it was, she followed it with another blow just under his sternum, just as forceful as the previous one had been. Again, his armor took most of it, but not enough. His lungs sucked for air, and he fell, but she caught him in her arms and held him gently while blood poured from his face and onto her shoulder.

"The armor is where?" she whispered in his ear.

"Suck my–"

She lifted his arm and elbowed him under his armpit, just above where his hard armor stopped. He blacked out. When his head smacked a wall across the room, he regained consciousness, but he might have preferred to stay in darkness.

"You're making this harder than it must be. I've gotten revenge enough already. You could have killed me before, but for whatever reason you didn't. Tell me where the armor is, and I leave. That is simple."

Revlen got to his knees and thought about trying to get back to his feet, but every part of his body advised that that would be a bad idea. He really only had two options. He could go to his grave with the satisfaction that Samus would never have his suit again, or he could survive and go back to living a life of mediocrity, having been bested by a child. Neither prospect was especially appealing, but his hopes and pride had already been crushed. Losing the last of it couldn't hurt that much.

"There's a mechanic outside of town," Revlen said, disgusted with himself. "The place is called 'Jameson Brothers', but there's only one of them. He's the one who has the suit now."

"Jameson Brothers outside of town. I understand. But," the girl warned, "if I find out you're lying, I will be back for you."

"Like I give two shits what a bitch like you does," Revlen said, sneering.

The girl didn't say anything else, but she didn't have to. As she turned and started walking away, his words hung in the air behind her. Revlen was left on his knees, staring at her out of one good eye, squinting at her hazy shape in the other, and bleeding from his nose and gums. Arrogant whore. Like she could treat him like that and think she could just walk away. He was Revlen Yomo—_the_ Revlen Yomo—and nobody was going to treat him like that, especially not some kid. Not some bitch.

A familiar shape formed in the corner of his blurry eye, and he turned to identify it more clearly.

The pistol.

Revlen licked his bloody lips and spat, then looked back at the girl. The girl didn't react, and was still well within his line of sight in the violet room. If he could get to the gun and fire before she turned the corner, he could pay her back. And she'd never see it coming.

He reached for the weapon at first, but it was painfully obvious that that wouldn't work. Instead he began to inch his way over to it on his knees, then his hands and knees, but he finally he made it. He picked up the gun and turned back to the corridor. She was still there, not yet behind the corner and in no hurry. Revlen rolled onto his back and steadied the gun on his knee Even so, he kept both hands on it. He was weak. He was tired. But he could do this.

He leaned up, cocked his head to the side, and stared straight down the sight of the gun with his good eye. She was right in the middle of it. Good. He took a breath and calmly squeezed the trigger.

There was an explosion, and Revlen had a moment of supreme satisfaction with the knowledge that he had killed the little whore who had troubled him so much. But that moment was over immediately. The pain in what had been his good eye and the agony in what remained of his hands ruined it. The screams of his knees and upper thighs ruined it. The realization that he'd failed ruined it. The gun had misfired. The gun had misfired and its frame had turned to shrapnel, lodged into his legs, cut into his face, and turned his hands into bloody red memories of their former glory. And now he was bleeding to death. He was dying.

Wait, that couldn't be right. That wasn't very serendipitous at all. He couldn't die like this. Not beat up by some girl and shot with a gun in his own hands. That wasn't how Revlen Yomo's death scene played out in the script.

Not like this.

He began crawling toward the window on his belly, every section of carpet he covered feeling like a parsec. But he wouldn't die like this. This wasn't right.

He got to the wall and thought he saw an opening from the tinted window. It filled his vision with red, one eye scarlet, the other crimson. But the scarlet was true, the light streaming through the broken window was jagged and spread itself over his injured body with a sickly hue, but it was right.

"Someone!" Revlen called out hoarsely to the unseen room. "I'm hurt, and I need help!" His only response was silence. "Please, I'm dying here! Hello…? For the love of the Goddess, I'm dying, someone help me!"

The explosion from the misfiring gun had been loud, but he wasn't deaf, and he heard footsteps approaching. His bad eye—now the only eye he had left—saw the shape coming toward him through the window. He couldn't see well, but he recognized who it was, dressed in red and carrying himself like a god.

"Ha ha, Samus," Revlen laughed weakly, as his head sunk to the floor under the weight of dejection. "So you've finally decided to show up and look at the handiwork your bitch did to me, have you? The handiwork _you_ did to me."

"I didn't cause this," Samus said, using his typical arrogant monotone.

Eh? No, it wasn't a voxcoder. The voice was clearly feminine. Revlen raised his head again for a better look. His vision was blurry and shaded by the window, but he could see Samus and his red armor right there. Revlen blinked and suddenly saw the girl, looking just as she had a minute before only shaded in red by the window and with a pulse rifle in one hand, but standing right where Samus had been a second earlier. Revlen blinked again and could see the girl and Samus at the same time– were they standing there together? Or was she…?

"You're Samus Aran," Revlen whispered, as the realization came at last. "The stupid little girl is Samus Aran."

"I am Samus Aran," the feminine voice affirmed.

"But how? How did you beat me without than damn suit of yours?"

"A former partner of mine said once that _who_ wears the suit is more important than the quality of it. Of course, he was also a fool."

Revlen could think of no retort. Seeing this, the girl bowed her head and began to turn away.

"Wait, you could save me. You could call someone in here, or stop the bleeding. Or you could kill me," Revlen pleaded. "But you can't just let me die like this!"

"I'm no angel of mercy, and I don't seem to mind being indirectly responsible for murder, if you'll remember." She paused. "I only know a portion of what you did, yet I know you _more_ than deserve this. By now, I should hope you would know you deserve this, too. Shh," she shushed when he tried to object. "This is your epiphany, Revlen. Don't ruin it."

The girl—Samus Aran—said something in a strange language and then walked away, disappearing from Revlen's limited sight. He screamed for her to come back, then for anyone to come, but no one did, and eventually he gave up and started sobbing. Revlen spent the next few agonizing minutes lying on the black floor, clothed in scarlet light, while he contemplated his final moments of enlightenment. After all, they were all he had left.

* * *

**~See You Next Mission~**

* * *

When we are children, we fear the dark because it is the unknown. It is the absolute unknowable, and we cower at its ineffability. What secrets, what terrible things lie hidden inside the dark folds of the shadowy abyss? We do not know, cannot know, and only a parent's gentle voice and reassuring touch can comfort us. As we grow older, we learn just as many terrible things are contained within the light. But who can comfort us then?

**Next episode:** Dark Closets and Golden Curls


	9. Episode 8: Dark Closets & Golden Curls

_Episode: Dark Closets and Golden Curls  
Primary author: KefkaFloyd  
Secondary author: Insomniac By Choice_

_

* * *

_

**Astra** **Platform of the Gehern-Snow System****  
****Lowell Residence, 2420 Beatitude Avenue****  
****2200 GFST****  
****09-15-08 GFSD**

Tiffany Lowell is six years old. She lives in a spacious, two story home in a pleasant neighborhood. She is fed, bathed, and clothed regularly. She has green eyes, blonde hair, and her grin stretches from ear to ear, lighting up the room when she's happy. But she is not happy. She has not been happy for some time, and right now she is terrified.

"Get up, sweetie, get up and let's go in here, sweetie," Tiffany's mom says, jerking Tiffany awake and out of the bed and carrying her to the bedroom's closet. "Hide right in here and don't come out no matter what you hear, okay?"

"Where are you going, Mommy?" Tiffany asks as her mom sets her down in the closet floor and steps back.

"I need to go downstairs with Daddy for a little bit, but I'll be right back in a few minutes, okay? Don't be scared, just stay quiet. Be a good girl for Mommy."

"Please, what's going on? Why are you crying?"

Her mom shuts the door and locks it.

"Shh," her mom says, voice muffled through the door, "Shh. Everything is going to be okay, sweetie, I promise. Just stay in here and stay quiet. Stay quiet."

There's a small space between the bottom of the door and the floor, and Tiffany lies down trying to look under it. Mommy is already running out of the bedroom and then Tiffany hears footsteps down the stairs. With her ear on the floor, Tiffany can still hear the pounding on the front door, but now she hears a crash. Daddy yells something, and Mommy screams. The pounding stops. Mommy is shrieking, but then there's a loud bang, and Mommy is quiet.

A very gruff voice says something, but it's muffled, and Tiffany can only get bits and pieces.

"—up. I said shut—we know you—is she?"

Someone answers. It sounds like her mother.

"—friend's house—please, please—nothing to do with—not here, I swear."

There's another voice, almost metallic. But Tiffany can't understand any of it.

The gruff voice talks again.

"Hear that? And—never wrong. If he says—_lying_—must be. You know—liars get. This wouldn't—paid the Dead—start. But hey, that's your—"

Something happens, but Tiffany can't hear what. She doesn't understand anything she just heard, she just knows something bad is happening and she's scared. She's so scared. But she's a big girl, and not a scaredy cat anymore. Mommy told her to be quiet and a good girl, so she will. But Mommy was scared of something, and Tiffany can't help but be scared now too. She can't see anything, and all she can hear is loud banging and crying and muffled angry noises. Tears are running down her face and she wants to cry out, but Mommy told her to be a good girl. She told her to be a good girl, and that's what she's going to be.

There's heavy footsteps coming up the stairs and

_Clank clank clank_

Tiffany doesn't know who they belong to, but she knows it isn't her one of her parents. She pushes herself up against the wall and

_Clank clank clank_

She whimpers and hugs her Mommy Kit close. She waits, but doesn't hear any more footsteps coming up the stairs and after several seconds, they go back down to the living room again. She hears the metallic voice again then the gruff voice, shouting:

"Then where is she? I thought you said–"

The metal voice says something short, and the gruff man is quieter when he responds.

"—no problem."

There's a lot of footsteps downstairs, a hover speeds away, then nothing. Nothing but her and the darkness.

She keeps waiting for someone to come up the stairs, for Mommy to come and open it and Daddy to pick her up and hold her, but they don't. Eventually she pulls some of the clothes down and puts them on the floor so her head can have something soft to lie on. She goes to sleep eventually.

Tiffany Lowell is six years old and scared as she's ever been in her life.

* * *

**Astra** **Platform of the Gehern-Snow System****  
****Lowell Residence, 2420 Beatitude Avenue****  
****1230 GFST****  
****09-14-08 GFSD**

_It's_ _a month earlier and Tiffany goes into her father's study to see if he feels like playing with her. He's on the phone at his desk and seems upset._

"_That's not what we agreed… I don't care, I'm not going to take the fall for this… Until now I've done everything, _everything,_ just like I said I would, but I have to draw the line somewhere. Okay? Defrauding the Federation is well beyond that line… I know… I understand that–… Well what good does that do me if I lose everything and spend the rest of my life in a penal colony? I have a wife and kid to take care–… If you touch a hair on either of their heads I swear I'll–... No, fuck _you_. I'll pay the rest of it off like we agreed before, and that's final. Hello? Hello?" He slams his fist down on the button and the machine turns off. "Goddamn it."_

_Her father turns around in his chair, rubbing his hand, and notices she's standing there._

"_Tiffany… when did you come in here?"_

"_Just now. Am I in trouble?" she whispers._

"_No, no, not at all, sweety," he says, but Tiffany still doesn't believe him. _

"_Do you wanna hold Daddy Woof?" Tiffany asks, presenting the fluffy animal to her father, "Sometimes he makes me feel better when I'm sad." _

"_Thanks, but I don't have time right now. Maybe later," he says and goes back to looking at some things on his desk. She takes a few steps closer and puts it on his armrest._

"_Just for–"_

"_I said I don't have time right now!" He swings his arm and sends Daddy Woof flying into the wall. Tiffany looks at it, then back at her father, and then back at the wall. She tears up and starts to cry. His shoulders sag at the sight._

"_Oh don't do that. I'm sorry, sweetie." He gets up and gets Daddy Woof off the floor and starts to play with it in the air. "See? Look, good as ever."_

_Tiffany nods as her father hands it back to her, and she hugs Daddy Woof close, but she can't stop crying. _

"_For God's sake, that's all you ever do anymore," he mumbles, but Tiffany sees something in his face she's never seen before, like maybe he's about to cry, too._

"_What's going on?" Marsia says as she comes in from another room. "Graham, what happened to Tiffany?"_

"_I don't know. She kept bugging me, and I knocked her animal over on accident, now she won't stop crying. Just do something with your daughter, will you?_

"_She used to be _our_ daughter, you know," Tiffany's mom says as she bends down to check on her. _

"_Fine. Do something with _our_ daughter. I have things to do in here," he says. "Christ, all she ever does is cry anymore. What's wrong with her?"_

"_Maybe she's not the one with the problem, Graham," Mom says, kissing Tiffany on the forehead._

"_What's that supposed to mean?" her dad asks._

"_I mean maybe her father is the one with the problem, Graham."_

"_Don't be a bitch, Marsia."_

"_Oh, nice. That's great. Great example you're showing in front of our child." _

"_Don't try that passive-aggressive shit on me. What have you ever had to do in your life except sit back and let other people work for you?"_

_Tiffany's mom stands up and gets in Dad's face._

"_I'm not the one who got drunk and ruined our family, Graham. Remember? So I think maybe that should count for something."_

"_No, you just tried to run off and abandon us because you're too selfish to try to help me fix it!"_

_Tiffany takes Daddy Woof back to her room and shuts the door, but she can hear her mom and dad for at least an hour more. She asks Daddy Woof why they're fighting, but he doesn't know. She touches one of the indentations on him, and he becomes Mommy Kit. Tiffany asks her the same thing, but she doesn't know, either. _

_Tiffany isn't tired but goes to lie down in her bed and puts the pillow over her ears. She goes to sleep eventually._

_Tiffany is six years old and worries somehow this is all her fault._

_

* * *

_

**Astra** **Platform of the Gehern-Snow System****  
****Lowell Residence, 2420 Beatitude Avenue****  
****0555 GFST****  
****10-15-08 GFSD**

Tiffany wakes up later, but she doesn't know how much later. She wonders why she's not in her bed and why, except for the sliver of light coming under the door, it's so dark. She remembers where she is, but not why. She's confused, but then she hears

_Clank clank clank_

Footsteps are coming up the stairs again. She recognizes the footsteps from somewhere, but she can't place it. She just now realizes why she's in the closet, and she's afraid again. But she's more afraid of being alone and believes that her mother or father is coming up to get her out.

"Mommy! Daddy!" she screams, banging on the door with her fists. The clanking grows closer, faster. Before she can hit the door again, she hears the knob twist and then the door is gone, and she can't see anything because of all the light. Then her eyes can see again, and she remembers why she's in the closet.

He stands there in front of her like one of the knights from Human social studies class, huge and strong and golden, holding the door in one hand like it doesn't weigh anything at all. She's stunned—by the light, by the person—and she can't move or speak or hardly think. When he drops the door on the floor, the crash jolts her out of it and she pushes back in the closet, crying and screaming as she hugs Mommy Kit as tightly as she can.

"Are you okay?" the knight asks. But he's got no mouth and the voice comes out all funny and stuff, like garbled but clear. It's really weird, but Tiffany stops screaming while she thinks about the weird voice. She doesn't answer or nod, though, and knight has to ask again. "Are you okay?"

"Where's my Mommy and Daddy?" Tiffany whispers.

"They..." the knight pauses for a long time here, "…aren't here right now. Because 'here' isn't safe right now." The knight takes a step forward and picks her up by her arm as easy as he'd done the door. When he takes a step back into the light and holds her up to his face, she can see his eyes for the first time and they look exactly like hers. In the same weird, metally voice as before, he speaks again, the sound shaking the inside of her brain and causing her ears to buzz. "I'm here to rescue you."

She hears the words and believes him but nearly bursts into tears again. All she can do is close her eyes and grasp his cold, metal arm as tight as possible, and let something like sleep overtake her.

* * *

**Astra** **Platform of the Gehern-Snow System****  
****Lowell Residence, 2420 Beatitude Avenue****  
****0120 GFST****  
****07-11-08 GFSD**

_It's four months ago and Tiffany can't go to sleep. Mommy's been gone for a few days and Daddy keeps saying she'll be home again soon, but Tiffany can tell he's worried. She hugs Mommy Kit close and wishes her real Mommy would come home so things could be like they were before. _

_She hears a hover lorry stop in front of the house, and gets out of bed to look out her window. She sees someone getting out of it with a suitcase and… _

_It's Mommy! She's back!_

_Tiffany almost flies out of her room and to the top of the stairs, but before she can shout out her mom's name, her mom opens the door and screams._

"_I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Tiffany hears her dad say and strains her neck to see him putting something in his pocket. "It's just so late, and I wasn't expecting anyone."_

"_But a gun? Graham what's–"_

"_You startled me, that's all. God, am I glad you're back." Tiffany sees her dad run over and kiss Mom. "I love you, I love you, I love you. I've missed you so much."_

"_I didn't want to leave you or Tiffany, it's just this was all getting to be too much."_

"_I know. But I'm going to make this right. I promise," her dad says holding her mother's hands. "We'll make it right."_

_They kiss again._

"_I know," Mom says. "Just let me unpack some of my stuff." _

_Her mother takes a suitcase to their bedroom, and Tiffany comes the rest of the way down the stairs, knowing she's not supposed to leave her bedroom until morning._

"_Hi, Dad," she says quietly. _

"_Hmm," he says, but doesn't seem surprised or mad. " You're up a little past your bedtime, aren't you?"_

_Tiffany's eyes examine her feet and the surrounding carpet most thoroughly, and she makes no response._

"_Well, I was going to wake you up in a minute, anyhow," he says, grinning. "Tell your mom you love her, and say it loud so she can hear you." _

"_I love you, Mom!" Tiffany yells._

"_My baby," her mother shouts back from the bedroom. She rushes in to hug her daughter and covers Tiffany's face and neck with kisses, making her giggle. Her mom stops and turns to Dad._

"_Seeing how our daughter's already awake, I hope I'm not interrupting any plans you two had by coming back tonight._

_Tiffany's dad smiles before putting on a wide frown._

"_Well," Graham says. "Before you interrupted, I was just about to take our little girl out for some ice cream." Tiffany's eyes perk up at mention of the frozen treat. "But now that you're here, I may have to change my mind."_

"_No Daddy, don't change your mind," Tiffany whines._

"_Ask your mother, and see if we can all go," Graham says, then winks. _

"_Please Mommy, can we go get some ice cream? "_

"_Of course,' Marsia says, and rolls her eyes. "Graham, why do you do these things?"_

_He waves her question off, but Tiffany is too busy running to get dressed to notice._

_

* * *

_

**Astra** **Platform of the Gehern-Snow System****  
****Amelis** **Sector****  
0****630 GFST****  
****10-15-08 GFSD**

Tiffany and the metal man trek on the walksides, the man in long, graceful strides that make him look like he's got wheels on his feet (he doesn't), Tiffany nearly having to run to keep up, dragging Mommy Kit behind her. Tiffany's head barely comes up to his knee and people keep looking at the two of them like something's funny. She wants to ask him to see if he knows what's so funny, but they haven't spoken a word since they left her house, or at least since she woke up and he sat her down so she could walk for herself.

Tiffany would like to talk, but she doesn't know what to say. The knight person saved her from the closet, but he kind of scares her for some reason. He's real big and quiet, or at least he doesn't talk much. So Tiffany figures that if they're going to have a conversation, she's going to have to be the one to start it.

"What's your name, mister?" Tiffany finally asks the metal man. "My parents told me to never go anywhere with strangers, so I don't want to go anywhere with you till I know your name."

"Samus," he says but doesn't turn to look back at her. "Samus Aran." Then later, "Your name is Tiffany Lowell, isn't it?"

'Yes. Wait, how did you know that?'

"I'm a bounty hunter. It's my job to know things."

"Oh. What planet are Bounty Hunters from?"

"What?"

"I learned from school that a long time ago Humans came from a planet called 'Earth'. And Taffirs come from…" She thinks a minute. "Um, I don't remember where Taffirs come from."

"Lex'tl-3," Samus answers.

"Maybe," Tiffany says.

"It is," Samus says.

"Okay, but I never heard of Bounty Hunters in school."

Samus laughs. It isn't a nice sound.

"Bounty hunters are not a species of people, Hatchling. It is a job, like ship captain or accountant."

"Oh. So what do you do?"

"I am a hunter, but instead of tracking or killing wild animals, I track people. Sometimes someone bad does a bad thing, and they run away. When that happens, someone offers a reward, or a bounty, to have them brought back. Bounty hunters find them and bring them back so they can get justice."

Tiffany thinks for a second.

"Was Daddy a bad man?"

"Yes—I mean, no." Samus pauses. "Well, someone thought so."

"What happened to Mommy and Daddy?"

"Your father did—or refused to do—something that made the wrong person angry"

"So what did Mommy do wrong?"

Samus laughs again. "She married your father, apparently."

Tiffany doesn't like the things Samus is saying. She stops walking with him and sits on the walkside with her arms crossed.

"Where's Mommy and Daddy? Where are they?" she begins to shout, turning many more heads their way. "When am I going to see them again? I want to go home, and I want to see my Mommy."

"No, no, everything is fine," Samus says as he reaches to lift her by her arm and thinks better of it. "Things are good, little one. I am sure it was all just a misunderstanding and once it gets sorted out, you'll get to be with your parents again."

Tiffany frowns, but stands up again. "You promise?" she asks as they move again.

Samus doesn't say anything for a minute or two. Finally, Tiffany repeats the question.

"I promise. I just have to look after you for a little while until they can come to pick you up again. For that we need to keep walking and get to my ship at the docks."

Tiffany surrenders and for a while has no complaints. She walks looking straight up at the ceiling, which goes as far as she can see and is bright blue with white wispy things covering up parts every so often. It looks very far away, but her dad told her it actually looked farther than it was. He tells her all the time that most places don't have something like that, only really nice places like theirs. Tiffany has never been anywhere else, so she doesn't know, he said. But he had taken her and Mom to some of the other levels on the platform, and they all have the same thing, so she doesn't know what he was talking about.

Tiffany takes her eyes back to ground-level and notices the scenery for the first time, then realizes where they are. Most everywhere on the platform the buildings look the same, like someone got tired of designing new things and just used the clone tool. This place is different, though. She's been to the Amelis sector before, but she hasn't been in a real long time. Mommy said it's because everything is overpriced on account of the tourists. Daddy said it's because there's too many weirdos.

"Usually when Mommy and me go somewhere, we take one of the rollers," Tiffany points out.

"Rollers cost money," Samus says.

"Not _that_ much money."

"Walking is free and doesn't cost any money."

"I'm _tired_," Tiffany says, trying a different tactic.

"We are getting close to my ship."

"And I'm thirsty," she goes on. "I want something to drink. Look, that place is selling freeze treats."

"We are almost at my ship. I have things to drink there."

"So do you have freeze treats?" Tiffany says, suddenly hopeful.

"…No." Samus sighs and turns to walk down the festive green path toward the market area and the vendor. "What would you like to have?" he asks her.

"A chocolate-covered ice-bomb, please!" Tiffany says, and bounces all the way to stand. There's a line, but it's a short one, and soon a pudgy middle-aged Human man in a black apron over his white uniform turns to the two of them.

"Hello there," he says. "And what can I do for the two of you this fine day?"

"One, no, make that two chocolate-covered ice-bombs, sir," Samus says. Without turning to Tiffany he says, "I've never had one of these before; how are they?"

"They're the greatest thing ever," Tiffany says, quite seriously.

"How much?" Samus says to the vendor.

"Nine hundred Yire," the vendor answers, smiling. "Each."

"Hmm."

Samus reaches inside of his arm, and pulls out a small, colorful card that Tiffany recognizes as money. Samus sets it down on the counter, waiting for the vendor to take it.

"Ah, that Fisk'll do," the vendor says, picking it up. Tiffany watches as he waves the Fisk-money at a machine, and hands it back to Samus. He turns around, reaches into a freezer, and pulls out a prewrapped treat: the chocolate-covered ice-bomb. Samus hands the first one to Tiffany and keeps the other for himself, but continues looking at the card handed back to him.

"Is there a problem?" the vendor says.

"That had 2000 Yire on it. I expected 200 Yire change, not an empty Fisk."

"Sir," the vendor explains slowly, "you may not be from here, but it's considered customary on Astra to leave the sellers a little bit extra. It's hard work, you know."

"How interesting." Samus holds out his hand. "Now, my 200 Yire."

The vendor stares at Samus for a few seconds before muttering something about someone's son and hands Samus another colorful thing.

"Thank you," Samus says and Tiffany takes off after him as he starts to move away again. She watches him eat the treat with his hand, or at least she figures he ate it because it crumbles up a few seconds later, and he throws away the wrapper at the next receptacle. Meanwhile Tiffany tucks Mommy Kit into her waistband so she can devote both hands to unwrapping the chilly confection. It's wonderfully ice cold, covered in hard, dark chocolate. A deep bite and a loud crunch reveal vanilla ice cream with chocolate chips. To Tiffany, it really is the greatest thing ever, and she takes her time enjoying it.

For now, Tiffany is comfortable.

* * *

**Spiral Platform of the ****Extra-Almoth Star System**  
**Common docking area**  
**0100 GFST**  
**13-15-08 GFSD**

For the first two days, Tiffany is actually quite excited. Well, at first she's disappointed because she thought she'd get to see her parents at the docks of Astra Platform, but then Samus says her parents hadn't been able to wait for her and Samus, and they had to go ahead to a different fiefdom. At first Tiffany gets mad and calls Samus a liar and a kidnapper and a bunch of dirty names her parents wouldn't want her to call anyone but she calls Samus anyway. Then Samus yells at her and Tiffany only yells louder until Samus uses his suit to play a message from her parents. They don't talk like normal, but their voices sound the same, and they tell Tiffany that they can't wait to see her again, and they're going to give her ice treats every day for a year when they do, but only if she's a good girl and does what Samus tells her. So she's been a good girl since.

Anyway, Tiffany has never left Astra platform before, so going on a real spaceship is something neat. And actually seeing strange other places full of strange other people (and other… not-people) is amazing. She convinced Samus to let her ride on his back walking around at the last place they stopped, so she could see over the crowd and look at everything, but after a while he made her get down when he said people weren't taking him seriously.

Now Tiffany is _bored_. Almost all of the time she's stuck in the ship, sometimes with Samus and sometimes without him, although there isn't really that much of a difference since he almost never talks and never leaves his suit. There's nothing at all to do except sleep; eat very, very bad food; and sit around watching the free channels on viewscreen. Nothing good ever comes on the free channels.

Samus swore it would only take a little bit to pack up and leave on his ship to go and meet her parents where they really are and will be staying, but it's been hours, and Samus is still out there talking and sending messages, while Tiffany is stuck in the ship watching the same stupid bounty hunter holovid over and over. It isn't even a real one. It says right on the listing that it just previews stuff offered on one of the good channels Samus doesn't have.

Finally, completely out of patience and things to do, Tiffany goes out of the ship and comes down the ramp.

"How much longer?" Tiffany asks, terminally bored.

"Just a moment," Samus snaps, surrounded by cargo as his only hand clicks away at a monitor. "I have a few things I need to take care of, then we can leave. Just go back inside."

Tiffany sits down at the top of the ramp and with her chin in her hands instead. Samus got mad at her the last time she turned Mommy Kit into a ball and bounced it inside.

A short, wiry man with whiskers and a jittery artificial eye walks up to Samus, hands in pocket, and looks at Tiffany. He takes one hand out and waves at her. Tiffany squints, trying to see if she knows him, but doesn't. She doesn't wave back.

"That girl of yours is quite cute," the man says to Samus. "Green-eyed and blonde and all."

"Thank you," Samus says without slowing down his typing. "That's very nice of you to say."

"How much you want for her?"

Samus stops, turns, faces the man.

"How much do I want for what?" Samus asks.

"The girl," the man says. "You ain't his dad, are you?"

"No. What? I don't understand."

"She can't be older than seven, right? That's a sweet and tender age, as you well know, I'm sure." He leans in, glances over both shoulders, and whispers. "I'll give you a million-five on the spot. If she ain't broke in yet, I mean. Naturally, without her cherry she ain't worth half that."

Without turning, Samus tells Tiffany to cover her eyes, and when she does, she hears something that reminds her of when her mom's wood desk snapped one time. Then Samus says it's okay to uncover her eyes, and Tiffany sees the man lying on the ground crying.

"What happened?" Tiffany asks.

"I made him sad," Samus says, now carrying up the ramp a dozen stacked boxes in one arm. "Let's go."

* * *

**Interstellar Space****  
****En route to ****the Middle-Esper System  
****13-15-08 to 14-15-08 GFSD**

Samus checks her messages to see if Mack has had a chance to respond yet. They're too far apart to make a conversation practical, but she couldn't think of anyone else to ask. She's lucky. He has answered.

"The wife, oh yeah, and the husband, eh. Legally, well, I'm not sure what his existential state is at the moment, but practically, yeah, all the king's horses and men couldn't do nothing to help him now."

"They had a daughter," Samus returns, though he won't receive it for hours more. "Her mother locked her in a closet to protect her, and I kept the others from finding her. After everyone else left, I came back and got her."

"Nice of you. I can't say I'm surprised. You're either the best bounty hunter in the world or the worst. Or both."

"What am I supposed to do with her? I was on a liberty platform today and someone tried to _buy _her from me."

"That's terrible. And I bet he tried to lowball you, didn't he?"

"The negotiations didn't get that far."

"I'm only fucking with you, you know that."

"I do know that, but I don't want you to joke with me. This isn't funny, Mack."

"It's very funny. Oh come on. Don't tell me you never wanted a brat of your own."

"I do _not_ want a child."

"Yeah, yeah. I'm sure you're too young for one. Or too old. Or too whatever the hell it is you are. Listen, I sympathize with you, I really do, but if you aren't planning to adopt it and retire or something, I need you for a job in two weeks, so have this figured out by then."

"Mack, I need help. I'm serious."

"Well then, seriously, you got yourself involved on your own, when you didn't have to, I oughta point out, so get yourself out of it on your own. Give it to an orphanage, pass it off to a friend, sell it for parts, _I don't care_. But if you bring it with you in two weeks, find yourself new employment. I don't need that kind of shit in my life. And neither do you, apparently. This is the last I want to hear about this whole mess."

Samus doesn't send anything else back about it.

In her metal suit, she watches the girl talking to her toy, now in dog form, as they sit on the floor. She tries to remember back to what life was like at that age, before that night, before she was Samus Aran. For the most part, she can't. Specific memories glow only dimly in the nebulous cloud of childhood, but she was happier then than she is now. At least she thinks she was.

Samus remembers only the one event clearly, the one she doesn't want to remember. Her mind's eye sees the minutest details of that no-more place, ears echo with long-silent screams, nostrils fill with vanished stenches, perhaps because she's the only one left to remember these things. The collective burden of memory fell to her, pinned her there in that moment for perpetuity.

Hundreds of people must have tried to hide, but all of them failed. Only she, in cramped and dismal darkness, eluded the Pirates, was rescued, adopted. She remembers every second of it all, and will forever.

But Samus also remembers the sweaty way her father smelled coming in from work that day, and the softness of her mother's hug. Samus ate something sweet, some kind of candy that her father had brought home, and she hadn't had many of them, so it tasted wonderful, more wonderful than she'd had words for. She ate it, and played in the dirt with a stick way out in the tall stalks of the field. It's so stupid, yet that moment is the happiest she can ever recall having been, she in the field, her mother cooking dinner, her father sitting on the porch, laughing at something, all oblivious to what is just about to happen. If she could, Samus would make that moment last forever.

Samus wonders if Tiffany will forgive her her lies when she gets older.

At their next jump point, the bounty hunter and girl sets a new destination for the ship.

* * *

**Astra Platform of the Gehern-Snow System  
Lowell Residence, 2420 Beatitude Avenue  
1600 GFST  
11-02-08 GFSD**

"_A lot more."_

"_I thought you only took five hundred thousand?"_

"_I did."_

"_So how did you lose more than that?"_

"_I don't know."_

"_You're the one who was there, Graham. How did you–"_

"_I don't know! Damn it, I don't know. I started off good, I won about two hundred thousand in a half an hour. Even after the first two hours, I was still doing okay. But then they kept serving me free drinks, and I kept losing more money. Then they kept offering to extend me loans, and I don't know why, but I thought I had a big win coming just the next hand—I could _feel_ it—and I just needed to put in enough money to make up for how behind I was. Then after a while, I don't remember anything anymore. I woke up the next day in one of their rooms, hungover as I've ever been in my life, and then some guys came in and showed me a bill with all of my charges on it."_

"_Well how much was it?"_

"_Honey…"_

"_How much?_ _Graham, how long is it going to take for us to pay this off?"_

"_Marsia,_ _if we emptied out our account and liquidated all our assets, it wouldn't even cover half. It wouldn't even be close."_

"_Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God," she keeps repeating. She waits awhile then says, "I can get a job. I can let my sister take care of Tiffany during the day, and we can move into a smaller house–"_

"_What you're talking about is a drop in the bucket. You don't understand."_

"_Then how do they expect you to pay them back?"_

_He sighs._

"_They're going to hire me some time next week along with some other people from the firm to audit them. And I'm going to save them a lot of money."_

"_Oh Graham."_

"_I'm so sorry. Marsia, I'm so sorry."_

_Under sheets and through walls, Tiffany hears the conversation, but she doesn't understand it._

_Tiffany is six years old, and so very confused._

_

* * *

_

**Planet Theresus of the Greater Theresus System****  
****Dedlam City****  
****1541 GFST****  
****16-15-08 GFSD**

She doesn't know where she is now. The past few days have been a whirlwind. Tiffany Lowell finds herself in an opulent house, and in a large room with a girl of a similar age. Samus brought her here to get to see her Mommy and Daddy again, he said.

The other girl had so many toys, and a cat. Tiffany could barely count the toys, but she knows it's many more than she could ever have. It makes her Mommy Kit look puny by comparison. But the girl doesn't seem interested in the toys that much. The silence begins to annoy her, and Tiffany decides to break the ice.

"So what's your name?"

"Cassandra. C-A-S-S-A-N-D-R-A. But my daddy calls me Cassie."

"Mine is Tiffany. My daddy just called me Tiffany."

"Do you know my daddy?"

"No, but the person I'm with does. Kinda. I think."

The conversation, as best as they can manage, goes well for a short while as girls of a similar age and demeanor can always accomplish. Disinterest starts to grow, though, and both wonder what they can do next. Voices start swelling from downstairs, which piques their interest.

"I wonder what they're talking about," Cassandra says.

"Things grownups talk about?" Tiffany offers.

"I'm gonna go see," says Cassie, as she tiptoes out of her room. Curiosity always did get the better of the cat.

"Wait for me!" Tiffany runs behind Cassandra, and both creep around the stairs. After sneaking around much like a kitty, they find the door to her father's study. The voices are much louder and clearer now, and they see it's Samus and Cassandra's father talking. ("I know him," Cassie says. "He found Mr. Fluffypants.") The two girls sit near the door and try to listen in.

"So what are you trying to tell me?" they hear Cassie's dad say.

"I need a favor, Mr. Cherrington," Samus's artificial voice follows.

"Call me Derrick."

"Derrick, then. Derrick, I need a favor. It's asking a lot of you, but—"

"The business ran into a slump again, eh? Well I'm sure I could find a temporary job for you around here to get you back on your feet. It wouldn't be a high profile job, but judging from our previous transaction, you might prefer it that way."

"Thank you, but no. In fact, I have more than enough money right now. It's not about that."

"Then what?"

A metallic mumble.

"And you want me to take her," Cassie's dad asks. "Is that it?"

"Yes, yes I would. I'd like you to care for her. For me. At least until I can find her a better permanent home, that is."

There's a few seconds of silence.

"I'm sorry, Samus, but no, I can't do that for you. Generosity can only extend so far before it becomes detrimental. Some burdens, other people aren't meant to carry. This one is yours, and you're going to have to figure out how to carry her for yourself."

"I can't. Mr.– Derrick. I can't. I'm doing my best just to take care of myself right now. She can't live the way I live."

"So change the way you live. Get a stable job and settle somewhere where you can take care of her. No one ever said a lone wolf couldn't have a cub."

"Look at me. I am a bounty hunter. It's all I was ever taught to do; it's all I know how to do. I don't know the first thing about taking care of a child. She deserves better than I can give her."

"All children deserve better than their parents, because no one knows how to raise a child until they have to. I may not be able to see through that visor of yours, but underneath all that armor it's clear you have a good heart. Sure, you'll make mistakes, and hopefully you'll learn from them. It's scary, I know, but part of being a father is learning how. I remember when I first found out Desiree was pregnant–"

"I'm not her parent," Samus interrupts. "I'm not related to her at all. Until a few days ago, I didn't even know who she was."

"Then I don't understand. Why do you have her? What happened to her parents?"

A metallic mumble.

"They what!?" Cassie's dad screams. "No, don't repeat it. By God, once was more than enough." A half minute of silence. "Sheila," he calls to the nanny, and they hear it echo from the receivers around the house. "Check my door for a moment, will you?"

The two girls get up quickly and try to hide behind some cover, but the woman in the apron is too quick and discovers them.

"Come on now," she says grabbing both by an arm firmly, but gently. "Let's go to Cassandra's room and play with all of her nice toys, eh lassies?"

They agree and go along willingly, but it's difficult to concentrate on what the woman says, because inside the room the man's voice gets really loud as he says, "—cold-blooded murder!—" before lowering once again. The two girls go back to what they were doing before. Once again, curiosity killed the cat.

* * *

**Planet Theresus of the Greater Theresus System  
Dedlam City  
1545 GFST  
16-15-08 GFSD**

"_I_ wasn't the one who did it."

"No, you didn't kill them, you just _helped_ the ones who did. And for the right money, you wouldn't mind standing and watching them do the same thing to Cassie and I."

"That's not—" Samus starts to say but Cherrington scowls, and Samus doesn't argue anymore. "I'll send money for her every week."

"I don't want your blood money."

"I'll come to check on her every–"

"She's in good hands. I'll treat her like my own daughter. If something ever happened to me, I can only hope someone would do the same for Cassie."

"…Thank you."

"Don't thank me," Cherrington spits. "I'm not doing it for your sake. If this was just about you, I'd hope she never left your side until the day you died. God, can you even imagine what it's like for a little girl to lose everything she's ever cared about like she has?"

"I–…" Samus's slumps down. "No, no one can imagine a thing like that if they haven't experienced firsthand."

"I'm glad you agree. You see the front door. I invite you to make use of it." They both rise and Samus begins to walk away. When Samus opens the door, Cherrington speaks again, his voice low but firm. "If you ever come here again, I'll put a such bounty on you as every hunter in the Federation will chase you. If you step foot on this _planet_, you'll never leave a free man again. Am I understood?"

"Yes, Mr. Cherrington."

"Then, sir, I hope to never hear from or of you again."

But Samus doesn't move and after a long pause finally says, "Without realizing it, we can become the thing we most despise. Remember that, Derrick. For her sake, not mine."

Cherrington's brow lets go of its furrow for a moment.

"I will," he says gently before the edge returns to his voice. "Now get out."

* * *

Cassandra's father opens the door to her room, meeting the two girls.

"Cassandra, I need to talk to Tiffany alone for a moment, okay, pumpkin? You want to check on Mr. Fluffypants while I do that?"

"Sure!"

Cassandra leaves and Cassie's dad stands for a moment with his hands in his pockets before dropping down to one knee.

"Hello, Tiffany. My name is Derrick Cherrington. I'm very sorry, but there's something you need to know about your parents."

When he tells her, she doesn't scream or cry. She doesn't do anything. When he asks her if she's okay, she says yes but can't think of anything to say or do besides that. Then for some reason, without having any reason to, he starts to cry, and watching him, Tiffany does too. And she hugs him, and he holds her, and she can't tell which one of them is shaking but they hold one another until they both stop. He wipes his eyes and stands up, then takes her by the hand into the dining room as he calls Cassandra to tell her it's time for dinner, the first of many.

Tiffany Lowell is six years old.

* * *

**Astra Platform of the Gehern-Snow System  
Lowell Residence, 2420 Beatitude Avenue  
1100 GFST  
09-15-07 GFSD**

_Tiffany Lowell is five years old. She's energetic, athletic, and adorable. Her father's blonde hair bounces from her head, while her mother's eyes, emerald green, dart everywhere with unrestrained enthusiasm. Her smile is her own, and when it flashes across her face, which is often, her tongue finds itself poking out between the window in her grin, but soon enough replacement teeth will be on their way. She lives in a spacious, two-story home in a pleasant neighborhood, her every need cared for and many of her whims indulged._

_Inside her living room, she chases after the ball her father bought her for her last birthday. It rolls across the soft carpet, stopping as it goes under someone's plain black shoe, a foot still inside it. She stops as the ball does, looking up at the man who the shoe belongs to. He is sitting in his chair reading something he calls "the news". He doesn't like to be disturbed when he's reading, but she doesn't see any other choice._

"_Daddy?" she whispers hesitantly._

_His eyes glance away from the news, to her, and down to the ball under his foot. He frowns, sets the news aside on the lampstand, and bends down to pick up the ball. He holds it up as if wanting her to study it thoroughly._

"_You need to be more careful, Tiffany," he scolds and she looks down at her feet, ashamed. She looks back up to see him smiling and a twinkle in his eye. "You're getting so big and strong these days, you could break my foot if you don't watch yourself."_

_He winks and rolls the ball back toward her gently. She catches it and waits. As he reaches for the news again, she bounces it back to him, hitting him in the leg. He raises an eyebrow and sees the grin spread across her face._

"_Oh, so that's the way it's going to be."_

_He picks the ball up again, stands, and walks over to her, holding the ball behind him. He bends forward at the waist until his face is level with hers, but does nothing, waiting on her to say something._

"_Give it back, give it," she pouts. He pokes out his lower lip, and she realizes he's making fun of her. She scowls at him and he reciprocates. "Give it," she says one more time, firmly._

"_Make me," he challenges. She accepts._

_She starts for him, but he steps away. He holds the ball out, directly above her head, and she grabs for it, but he pulls it away at the last second. She jumps, but misses again. He laughs, but stops when he sees the look on her face._

"_Uh oh, I've done it now," he says._

_She crouches, as if to jump again, but instead leaps for his leg. She latches on, and he tumbles to ground but miraculously does not fall on top of her. He is on his back, dazed, and she gets up, running toward him to take the ball out of his hand. He sees her coming and rolls on his stomach with the ball under him._

"_Mwahaha," he cackles. "You're never getting your precious ball back now, Tiffany!"_

"_Daddy!_ _Give it back!"_

"_Just tickle him," a voice—her mother's—comes in from another room. "He can't stand it."_

"_Et tu, Marsia?"_

_The girl seizes upon this opportunity, and begins to tickle her father, poking him in the waist, then, at the further suggestion of her mother, begins tickling him on the nape of his neck. He laughs uncontrollably, on his back now, and begins moving spastically._

"_Ha ha—please—ha ha—stop it! I'll—ha ha ha—give it back. Ha ha—show mercy!"_

_Before she can, his arm jerks out and flings the ball across the room, into a lamp. There's a crash, and tense silence. Neither she nor her father move, but their eyes move to wall to the side of the kitchen and stare._

"_What was that?" comes a harsh voice from the other room. "Did you two break the lamp in there?"_

"_It was Tiffany!" her father says immediately, jumping to his feet._

"_He's lying!" Tiffany protests, doing the same. "It was him."_

_Her mother comes into the room and glares at Tiffany's dad._

"_Ahem," he coughs and rubs the back of his head. "Well, it slipped because she was tickling me mercilessly– at your urging, I might add. So actually, it's really _your_ fault."_

"_It's _my_ fault, but _you're _going to clean up my mess for me, anyway, because you're such a great husband, right?"_

"_Right," he agrees and walks over to kiss Tiffany's mother. "As much trouble as you cause around here, darlin', sometimes I don't know why I put up with you. Oh wait, that's right."_

_He does something Tiffany can't see._

"_Not now, Graham. It's nearly her bed time anyway."_

_Tiffany's father comes back in and starts brushing up broken pieces, while her mother brings the ball back to her and pushes one of the indentations on its surface, making it become soft and fluffy, sprouting cat ears, a tail, and a smiling cat face._

"_I told you when you're playing in the living room, make sure it's one of your animals, or at least on nerf," her mother says. "I know it was your father who threw it, but if you'd listened to what I told you, the lamp wouldn't have broken."_

"_I'm sorry, Mommy."_

"_It's okay sweetie. You just don't realize how hard it is to be a single mother and raise two children."_

"_Hey, hey, hey," he interjects, taking a break from his cleaning. "I resemble that remark."_

_Her mother rolls her eyes, and her father laughs at his own joke. Tiffany goes back to playing, this time with Mommy Kit. A little while later she is told it's time for bed, and she complies. She brushes her teeth, puts on her pajamas, and gets in bed. Her mother tucks her in, and her father reads her a story. She drifts off to sleep before he is done, and he quietly tip toes out of the room, leaving it dark except for the nightlight on one wall._

_Tiffany Lowell is five years old and happy._

* * *

**~See You Next Mission~**

* * *

We thought at first it was made of cheese, but when we saw it was a man, we shot it right in the eye POW and that was the thanks we gave for centuries of looking down watching over us.

No wonder it was cold and dead by the time we stepped on it.

**Next Episode**: The Man in the Orange Moon


	10. Brief: The Man in the Orange Moon

_Episode: The Man in the Orange Moon_

* * *

**Planet ****Yurusaga-V of the Yurusaga Prosperity System  
MegaBucks City  
_The Orange Moon_  
****0135 GFST  
01-01-09 GFSD**

"Oh no, João, I can't," the pretty blonde woman said as her eyes took in the full digits on the Fisk. "It's too much."

"It's only money," João Lopes said, and he meant it. At this point in the night, he meant everything he said. He smiled warmly at both of her sitting next to him at the table, which was actually sort of tough because the room kept spinning her away from his view.

What was left of his sober mind told him that she was just typical bar trash and nothing to go wild over. But he loved her with all of his drunken heart right then, and he believed she was the most singularly beautiful, wonderful, perfect creature in the whole world, and even better there were two of her.

She stayed to talk with him a while longer, probably out of obligation more than anything, then thanked him and hugged him and promised to repay him some day. She kissed his cheek, and he told her she already had. But she was already gone. João didn't even know her name, but he knew he'd never see her again.

"Blondes will be the death of me," João said with conviction, and went wobbily up to the bar. Catching his reflection in the mirror, he performed one his periodic evaluations of the fellow that looked back at him.

Salt-and-pepper hair tumbled over his ears and forehead, but he remembered that he'd gotten himself a haircut earlier in the year and was quite proud of this. His whiskers were weeklong and all gray, and João reminded himself sobriety was not the best metronome for shaving. His face was tan and leathery, lips cracked dry, and his eyes, though half-lidded and dull, couldn't completely hide the spark in there. His teeth were yellow and ground down, so why was he smiling? For a 60-year-old man, João thought he honestly looked pretty good, but for someone in his mid-40s, as João actually was, he was less impressive. No wonder the woman ran off.

He pushed some greasy strands of hair back on top of his head. His shirt was covered in stains and stank of sweat and liquor. Or maybe he was just sweating liquor these days. Speaking of which, he needed to order one last shot of tequila for the road. João called for the top shelf stuff and paid the bartender with his last Fisk. "Keep the change, Hasan. No, on second thought, leave me one Yire so I know I ain't broke, haw haw."

Hasan shook his head and did as he was told, handing back a near-worthless Fisk. That was one of the reasons he liked this place, João decided. The bartenders did what you told them. He liked the atmosphere a lot, too. Old wood and bright neon went great together. And the people here were great. Real. They smoked and fought and treated people right. And he liked that there was an actual bar to rest your feet on when you sat at the stool.

"I think you only like this bar because we're the last place that lets you drink on the house when you're wiped out," Hasan said, and João realized he'd been talking out loud. Hasan slid over a warm shotglass full of the source of and solution to all the world's problems.

"You're the only place that looks out for me when I'm down on my luck," João said, swallowing the contents of the glass in a quick gulp. He licked his lips and then stuck his tongue in the glass. "When I'm up, anyplace will have me. Haw haw."

"Do you have any idea what your tab is tonight?" Hasan asked. "Yours, I mean. Not the ones you picked up for everyone else."

"It's only money," João said. "Or the idea of money. People should be happy, right? That's the point of life, right, to maximize happiness for everybody you meet?"

He closed his eyes a little too long, and his stomach kicked up, but he kept it down to a burp.

"Is it true you spent 50 million Yire in three days?" Hasan said.

"It's only money," João said after a long while.

"Look, I appreciate the tips, and I even like having you in here when you're broke again and mooching off everybody else, but you can't keep living like this."

"I know."

"That Fisk you gave the slut who just ran off on you, how much was on there?"

"I don't remember," João said quite honestly, and licked his glass again. "Hey, I tell you what, me having been so generous and all before, how about one more shot, huh? House tequila, even."

"Go home," the bartender said. "Or at least get yourself a hotel room and sleep in a bed for once."

"Nah," João said. "I won't even make it two blocks. Good-bye, Hasan. You've always been great to me. You're the best bartender ever. Really, I love you. You're great."

"Whatever. Be safe, João."

João wobbled his way off of the stool and fought the swaying floor to get to the door only to step outside where the humidity strangled him. Ah well. He enjoyed the night air anyway. Everywhere signs bathed the streets in neon blankets but flashed and jerked in such a way that his head did not appreciate. He tried to enjoy that, too. It was pretty in its way. No matter how many times he saw it or in what context, he tried to remind himself that.

He pushed his feet to walking down the street, past pimps, whores, thugs, revelers drunk and flush with cash, unhappy gamblers trying to pinpoint just when in the night things had turned against them, peddlers of things worthless and things addicting, and by the time he got to the second block, João's heart was filled with all the love it had to give. This was home, after all, and he would have to say good-bye to it all soon.

Halfway down the second block, two people following João from the bar finally caught up to him. One grabbed him and tossed him into the alley, the other punched him in the face. No one on the street gave any notice.

Blood streamed from João's nose, and he would have fallen, but they kept him held upright. Two Jorgs and two West Vidians stood in front of him, but blinking reduced them to just one each, and his vision held them singular.

Under its cloak, four of the Jorg's legs were on the ground, but the other two and its proboscis roamed João's body and clothing, searching.

"It's in the—" João started to say before the West Vidian hit him in the chin and slapped him several more times in the side of the head, for no reason.

"Shut up," the West Vidian hissed. He was small for his race, about two meters and no more than 200 kilos, and one of his horns was broken in half. João felt sorry for him. "Find you the Fisks?" the West Vidian asked his partner.

The Jorg said nothing, but had in fact found João's last card with one of its feet and used its more sensitive nose to pull it out of João's back pocket. It brought the Fisk close to its eye and the West Vidian leaned in to have a look.

"One Yire!" the West Vidian said. "To where did other Yire go?" He hit João in the eye. João saw stars; they were pretty. "In the bar you spend like rich man you are!"

"I'm sorry," João said, genuinely. "When I get drunk, I get generous. I meant to leave enough for you guys, but I got carried away."

The West Vidian growled and hit João in the stomach. Which was a mistake, João knew immediately, and both muggers found out shortly when they caught the majority of his dinner and evening's carousing all over them. Between heaves, João tried to apologize to the Jorg especially for getting some up its nose, but neither of them were in a forgiving mood. They worked him over pretty good until his legs gave out completely.

Once he was on the ground, he had all six feet stomp him. Then the West Vidian got involved, and things _really _got bad. João heard something in his chest crack, and his jaw moved the wrong way. Then a heavy boot came down on his face, and all the stars went out, and João Lopes didn't have to worry about his hangover at all, or waking up tomorrow.

* * *

**~See You Next Mission~**

* * *

There's nothing more truly terrifying than a run of good luck. In the long run, life ain't nothing more than statistics, and I tell you, that return to the average can be _awful_ mean.

And the house, oh boy, the house _always_ wins, so the worse it lose, the more you know it's gonna take when it wins it all back.

**Next Episode**: Fire in the Neon Sky


	11. Episode 9: Fire in the Neon Sky

**Planet Yurusaga-V of the Yurusaga Prosperity System**  
**MegaBucks City**  
**En route to The Pink Flamingo Casino**  
**1235 GFST**  
**03-01-09 GFSD**

An almost half-block-long roller cruised along the main boulevard of MegaBucks City, black and gaudy and awful, even amid the neon signs of tokens, cocktails, and live nudes visually shouting for attention. It crawled without urgency or purpose in traffic except, perhaps, to be conspicuous. Even here on a planet celebrated for its libertinism, even here in a city legendary for its extravagance in debauchery, people on the street craned their heads to watch the sight of the magnificent luxury vehicle driven by a giant black exoskeleton, trimmed in red, and couldn't help but wonder what sort of person could be riding inside.

Mack Messer lounged in the backseat by himself, enjoying a bottle of very cheap wine poured into a much more expensive bottle ahead of time. Old habits died hard, and so did acquired tastes. The red UV-shades hid how much he'd enjoyed the acquired taste the night before, but he looked as dapper as possible in a jet black suit and blood red tie, now that he'd finished shaving the stubbly shadow off his chin.

"The thing is, Samus," he explained to his chauffeur, playing with his patch of graying temple, "the house always wins. And it's not even because the house cheats or has things rigged in its favor. Of course, that's true, too."

"Of course," Mack's personal armored bounty hunter, bodyguard and now assigned roller-navigator answered. Samus was well-dressed for their occasion but had apparently misunderstood Mack when he told him to come dressed in a _suit_, black and red, for the annual Dead Red financial meeting.

"Even when they win, even when they're _up_ truckloads of money, they still manage to find some way to give it all back. Gambling isn't really an act of trying to win money; it's paying the price to have your money colorfully taken, with a sense of uncertainty for the how and when," Mack said.

"Suppose they don't, though," Samus asked. "What if they win especially, or _do_ know when to quit?"

Mack laughed.

"Then that'd be unfortunate for them, wouldn't it?" Mack said. "Economics here are a delicate balance, you know. Can't let too much off-world. People could leave with casino tokens any time they want to, but they aren't worth much anywhere else. The Feds make sure of that."

"I see," Samus said, but didn't pursue it any further.

There was about a minute of silence before Samus asked something Mack assumed must have been on his mind for some time.

"I understand why you have to come to this meeting with the other underbosses, but I don't understand why _I_ am here."

At this point Mack smiled, because he couldn't help himself — and also because if he didn't, Samus would ask him what was the matter. His powerful bounty hunter had a piercing sense of intuition, but not too piercing. Or, rather, only a certain _kind_ of piercing.

"Well, as you may or may not know, the Xions have been managing to finagle their way into quite a few things, one of them being this valuable casino that until recently, was solidly Human-run property," Mack said. "They were successful. This is the last meeting before The Pink Flamingo gets turned over the Xigs for the next fiscal year."

"OK." Samus hesitated, and even though the voice continued to come out firm, Mack had learned the contours of the mechanical voice well enough by now, the bounty hunter may as well have been stuttering. "I apologize, but I still don't understand."

Mack realized Samus needed the hair of his ego ruffled a bit, as occasionally happened.

"Negotiations over some finer details should be, well, _tense_. I need someone I can count on to be there and do what needs done. So far, you haven't let me down yet. How many jobs is it now, 12?"

"14," Samus said.

"There you go. Plus however many for other Reds on the side. Anyway, you can see how you'd be an asset."

Mack took a swig of his faux luxurious wine, then wiped his mouth on a genuinely expensive towel folded over in the back of the seat in front of him. He always made sure to tell Samus truth; the bounty hunter could tell when he was lying, he'd found. But it wasn't quite mindreading, was it? Otherwise Mack would have been in real trouble.

"It's just that, the Xions don't like me, sir. In fact, I rather think they hate me," Samus said. "I don't see how I could do anything to help in negotiations."

"Hate you?" Mack guffawed. "Samus, they're _afraid_ you. And what better negotiating tool than someone who makes the other side piss themselves? You're the damnedest thing. I love it."

Samus didn't ask anything more the rest of the ride. Mack didn't have ESP, but he thought he could feel Samus swell with something like pride.

It was going to be war soon, and he needed his best soldier kept happy.

* * *

**The Pink Flamingo Casino**  
**1300 GFST**

The roller stopped next to the front steps, and Mack waited for his driver to come let him out. Samus did, and Mack thanked the bounty-hunter-turned-personal-assistant.

"Thank you Mr. Aran," Mack said. "You are a scholar and a gentleman."

Samus looked away, almost as if blushing

Mack began walking up the 30 or 40 steps between him and the doors, Samus a step and a half behind him. He could have used one of the automated lifts to get him there, and faster, but the walking did him good, and he needed to do more of it. After 40, the years came like cinderblocks. Dropped on the head.

At the top, a uniformed Human girl pulled one set of doors open for them, and Mack and Samus walked on through, with Samus pausing briefly to tip the girl. They could all have been automated or people could open doors for themselves. They could have, but the whole point of luxury wasn't your convenience, it was making sure someone else was inconvenienced.

Being inside the Pink Flamingo was almost hypnotic, pink and red mixed everywhere until it almost felt like being surrounded by flesh. The lights in the room shone low and hummed faintly until time no longer existed, and no one would have cared if it did.

The raised level circling the room contained the old-fashioned games, complete with actual people managing them, and nearly a fourth of the upper level was a bar, the only place you could spend your money and be guaranteed to win. Inside the lowered bowl, machines of every kind clumped into each other, with their lights and sounds competing for attention. Promising wealth and happiness, they showed their patrons visions of themselves in a brighter day. It was worth the cost to see one's dreams made tangible, if unfulfilled, and now more remote after the spent money.

Nothing was real on this level, nothing true except desperation, permeating everywhere along with the cigarette smoke. The people sucked in the cigarettes, burning it up with each breath, but it was an optical illusion, because really the cigarette was sucking them inside _it. _The machine mind commanded the person's arm to pull the level; it was the flesh that was mechanical.

For most people, this would be a pitiful scene, and maybe at another time in his life, it would have been for Mack as well. But for him now, it looked like money, a hundred-thousandth of a Yire making its circuitous path to his bank account. And so he rejoiced at the despondency.

"The meeting is upstairs," Mack said, glancing back at Samus, "but it's not for another hour or so. I have some business I need to take care of before then, but alone-like, yeah?"

Samus nodded.

"Is there anywhere in particular you'd like me to be, sir?"

"When I go in the lift, I want you with me, but until then, just stay in sight and out of trouble," Mack said.

Samus took a half-step and stopped.

"That's usually easier said than done for me," Samus said.

Mack sighed. He started across the room to a nearly empty Redjack table in the corner and stopped behind the chair of a dark-haired Human man, who looked to be in his early-30s.

Despite having a massive bet in front of him, the Human looked like he was about to fall asleep on the table. There were four cards so far, and the three showing totaled 17. The man sluggishly tapped the table, and the dealer, who had an ace showing, shakily drew a card and pushed it toward him. It was a three of clubs. The man sighed and turned over his last card: the ace of diamonds. The dealer looked quite relieved and revealed a nine of hearts for herself, then dealt one more card and busted. While this transpired, Mack sat down beside him at one of the empty chairs.

"I don't even understand how you can _enjoy_ playing when you know the outcome already. Not really gambling anymore, is it?"

Grado Landon finally stopped arranging his tokens and tossed about a third of them to the dealer. She caught them in mid-air and almost cried while thanking him, then rushed for the front door. Grado swung his gaze to meet Mack's face; the eyes of the casino's daily operations chief had the dead of circuitry in them, and Mack repressed a smile remembering the story of how they'd been lost.

"The gamble was on whether she could make me win without me noticing how," Grado said. "I said she couldn't, so she won the bet. The tip was her severance pay."

"That's a hell of a thing," Mack snorted. The tokens she'd left with were a good year's salary for most people. "And if she'd lost?"

"I'd have kept her on until the Xions took over, and they'd have flayed her alive," Grado said, standing up from the table. "They probably still will, but I wanted them to at least have to work for it."

"Aw," Mack said, realizing the casino boss's lie. "You sweetheart Grado."

"Ain't I just." Grado coughed. "I'm thirsty. You?"

"A little."

They walked toward the bar and the energy for conversation was spent instead on walking. Mack saw Samus peering over someone's shoulder at a nearby poker table.

"—actually just the opposite," Samus was saying. "You made a terrible bet, but you're going to win the hand. And if the dealer distributes cards the way she did last time, you'll probably—"

"Samus," Mack whispered, too quietly for even Grado to hear, but sure enough the bounty hunter stopped talking. "Leave the customers alone and let them _lose in peace_."

Samus made a small bow and left the table, heading toward the lower deck. About the same time, Mack and Grado sat down on two stools at the bar, and Mack turned his attention back to more important things.

"Are the circumstances for that game you just played with the girl worth telling me about?" Mack asked.

"I don't think so. No, on second thought, it actually may come up later." Grado ordered two vodka sours, and Mack thanked him for his generosity. "Some guy came by the other day, took us for 50 million."

Mack laughed, but Grado didn't.

"No, you heard right. He actually won more than that, but he kept throwing money around, tipping dealers, servers, other gamblers. He gave _that_ girl," Grado pointed toward the exit, "more money than some of the rest, which we seized of course. We'd told her ahead of time that if she didn't make sure he lost, she was going to be in a bad way. She understood and promised he wouldn't take a hand. He still won." The bartender handed them their drinks. "Lucky bastard won everything. We couldn't kick him out because everyone was watching what was going on, people coming in off the street just to cheer him on. Anyway, I wanted to see if that girl is less than advertised, but turns out she is that good. _My eyes _barely follow her. And she got took all night by some drunk old bum. Everybody here did."

Mack's lips nibbled the edge of the glass.

"How'd he manage to get away with cheating that much?"

"That's just the thing," Grado said, draining half his cup. "I got no idea. We got him so drunk he couldn't walk, and still he'd call out from the floor, 'Hit me!' and win. He's done this before. Not this much, but the same way. A few years back, he came through here, couldn't _lose _a Yire if he was getting paid to do it. I watched the viddies. It was the same as this time. Nobody could catch where he pulled the con. But just last month, he probably lost fifty-kay on the 50 Yire slots. For eight hours, I mean, he didn't hit _nothing_."

Out of the corner of his eye, Mack caught Samus talking to an old woman. The bounty hunter stopped her from using the last token in her hand on one of the 20 Yire slot machines and pointed his finger at another a few seats down.

"Huh," Mack said. He turned his focus back to the table. "So you know who he is then?"

"By name, yeah. Something Lopes." Grado pulled a portable display out of his pocket and opened it. There was a grainy holovid face and under it the name "João Lopes" spelled out. "Otherwise he's a nobody."

"You mind if I keep this?" Mack said. Grado waved it off, and Mack put the display in his own pocket.

"Honestly, I wouldn't care at all if those damn Xigs weren't taking over," Grado said. He finished his glass and immediately ordered two more. "Usually we'd just wait to recover from it. Two, three months down the road, and we're back where we were or better. Now we can't pay out hardly anything else without it looking like we've taken a huge loss this fiscal year. All the payout probabilities are way down."

The old woman shrieked and waved her hands in the air as tokens piled at her feet up to her waist. Wisely, Samus was nowhere to be found. Grado didn't appear to pay attention to any of the commotion.

"None of that stuff changes anything, it just makes it worse. This is the start of something big with those fuckers, I know it. First, the Xions muscled their way into our casino, _my_casino, now they're raising a stink about that accountant business to force me and all of us even more out of the way. They're looking to take over the whole operation."

"Nah, I wouldn't worry," Mack said, focusing back on the glass in his hand and man beside him. "I was never for poking the dragon on federal taxes, but that's over and done with. The Xions? They're flexing now, is all."

"I don't know," Grado Landon said, wiping dried spit from the sides of his mouth. "The Boss isn't going to last forever."

"He'll outlive us both, you watch."

"No, Mack, really. He hasn't got much longer, and everyone knows it."

"So you're a doctor now, huh?"

"In this case, sort of." Grado gave the bartender a look, and she knew to get out of earshot for a while. "I came across the result of his last examination."

"You went looking and stole a peek at his files, you mean."

"I mean what I mean. My point is, the doctors don't think it looks good. They've done just about everything to get him this far, and it's cell death. If he doesn't go to the Central Planets to get worked on, he's done."

"How you mean?"

"Six months, on the outside."

"And you're saying the Xions know about it, too?"

"I don't think so, no," Grado said. "But they can figure it out generally, same as everybody."

The two of them sat in silence for some time.

"Who else have you told what you found out?" Mack asked.

"Just you so far."

"Good."

"There's a few others I trust, all Human. Everyone hates Xigs, but they may not like us much better."

"Yeah, yeah. Smart thinking."

"Before I can go any further," Grado whispered, "I need to know that you'll be behind me when the time for the shakeup happens, no hesitation."

Mack took a moment to finish the last of his drink.

"Of course. Of course I will."

"When we see what we've got, we can go from there," Grado said. "You're my right-hand man in this."

Mack nodded and let that settle.

"One word of advice for moving forward, then," Mack began, "don't start playing nice with the Xions all of a sudden. I know you probably want to lull them into a false sense of security, but you haven't dealt with them as long as I have. Not only could it make them suspicious, but they'll get bolder. The only things those mouth-breathing thugs understand is power, so any time they push, we have to push back and make them think twice about taking us on. That meeting upstairs is the first step. Don't bend over and let them ream you about anything. I mean _anything_."

"Yeah, OK. That makes sense. When it comes to backstabbing, there's nobody I trust more than Mack Messer." Grado finished his third drink. "Tell me, do you still carry around your old knife?"

Mack shrugged.

"I wouldn't remember how to use it anymore anyway."

* * *

**The Pink Flamingo Casino**  
**1335 GFST**

Samus's Internal Processing Unit had reserved awareness to keep track of Mack since they'd parted ways, and when it saw him stand up and head for the lift, the IPU let her know. Samus acknowledged the signal within the suit, and outwardly tried to finish enlightening the more than slightly drunk woman in her late 20s leaning against a nearby pillar about the nature of statistics.

"No, no, the more you play, the more money you're likely to _lose_ in the long run," Samus said. "So if you really want to provide for your children, the best thing to do is _not _gamble, and eventually the money you don't spend in the casino will add up—gradually—to a sort of jackpot on its own. You see?"

The woman nodded, but had slid down the pillar and was now sitting on the floor in her purple skirt. It matched her hair, and Samus wondered if the woman had planned that.

"You're smart," she screeched in a remarkably high pitched voice, scratching her eyebrow and smearing the top layer of makeup. "You look strong. I need someone to take me home."

"I'll call you a taxi."

"No, please. I don't want to go home alone tonight." The woman looked like she was about to cry. "I'll show you a good time. Just ;et me get you out of that big, sweaty power suit first."

"Thank you, but the temperature regulator is working fine," Samus said. "And I have to go."

Samus walked as quickly and casually as she could to the lift where Mack was waiting for her, and with him a small crowd of people also waiting for the lift to arrive. The tone chimed, the doors opened, and Mack stepped in first, turning back toward the crowd with a hand out.

"This is a private ride," Mack smirked, nodding toward Samus.

She took the hint and stepped forward, ducking slightly so not to bump her head. People took her a lot less seriously when she forgot to do that. Samus grabbed a small Wy'dan child…(?) And gently dropped… her(?) back outside the doorway, then stood and crossed her arms.

(At the edge of her vision, her IPU clarified that it was an adult Wyd'an, and their sex characteristics were too complicated for binary linguistic classification.)

Everyone else planning to get in with them suddenly stopped and took a step back. Samus went in by herself, then turned around and pointed a finger upward.

"Weight limits," she said, and she saw everyone nod and resume normal breathing as the doors closed.

"I have a new job for you," Mack said behind her as she felt the rush of acceleration. "Forget the bodyguard stuff. I have a name and face. I need you get the person and bring him back here."

Samus turned to face him and saw a strange look on his face. The usual playfulness was gone, replaced with something hard and cold.

"I admit," Samus said, "I'm relieved to get out and about, but this all seems quite abrupt, sir. What is going on?"

"Samus, you know how when I offer you a bounty, you always ask a bunch of questions, and then I answer all of your questions before you accept?"

"Yes."

"This isn't one of those times." Mack handed her a small holovid displayer as the door opened again for the top floor conference hall. "Take a look at it when you get outside. He's apparently somewhere in the city, and that's all I know. For anyone else, what I'm asking is impossible. Because it's you, I'm asking you to find him in six hours. I need him by tonight."

"I'll do my best, sir," Samus said. She wondered if he could hear her heart pounding.

"Then I'm not worried," Mack said. Her IPU confirmed he wasn't. He stepped out and left her alone in the lift.

"Tonight," he repeated once more before the doors closed behind him.

* * *

**MegaBucks City  
1440 GFST**

Even before she'd gotten out of the lift, her suit was combing all of the public and easily accessible not-so-public electronic databases on the local Lattice. Her sense of fatalism was not surprised when, by the time she left the casino, it had searched them all, and found nothing to go on. That left other, more time-consuming tactics.

Samus projected Lopes's face out of the back of her hand, about twice as large as actual-size and four meters in the air, as she walked down the crowded sideway cold-calling his name in the burdened air.

"João Lopes. João Lopes."

Even for her it felt blunt and artless, but time she spent thinking of a better plan was time wasted. Plus, she wasn't really looking for Lopes himself. Chances of that were slim. (She stopped her IPU from calculating the precise odds and made sure it was focused on scanning the crowd.) But finding someone who recognized face or name, even in a city of this size, wasn't totally ridiculous. Samus just had to provoke a reaction her suit could pick up on, and the longer she did, the more people she could try out, and the more inevitable finding someone with a connection to Lopes would become.

But an hour later, it seemed much less inevitable than when she started and Samus was mentally playing out all of the scenarios for herself and her future with the Dead Reds if she failed to find this bounty. Surprisingly, she found not all of them were bad. She'd had a good run, and was well-set-up to freelance again. At least, this is what she told herself.

She was flailing now, and she knew it. Finding Lopes was inevitable (it wasn't, but again, it built her confidence to say so). By way of loophole, she reconciled the two competing opinions with the compromise that finding him was more or less inevitable, but meeting Mack's deadline wasn't. He wouldn't care for excuses, even legitimate ones.

Then her suit picked up someone looking a little longer at the face than he should have, then her IPU showed her the memory section of the fellow's brain was firing off, and _then_Samus knew she found her first lead.

As it turned out, that guy didn't know much of anything. But, he did remember that Lopes had once picked up his tab at a bar a few years ago (the bar had closed and reopened twice in the meantime), and more recently he'd seen Lopes begging for scrap Fisks at a nearby street corner a few blocks over. So the man with the exceptional memory had recognized Lopes and given him a 100 Yire Fisk, but that was more than a month ago. Samus thanked the man for being so forthcoming, set him down, and went in the direction he'd given her.

At the street corner, Samus met a Sylvan prostitute who said she'd met Lopes and talked to him a while until her Vidian pimp had caught wind of it and smacked them both around a little for wasting so much time. Her pimp was nowhere to be found while she stood talking to Samus, for some reason, which disappointed her. In any case, the prostitute said Lopes's old lady went by the name of Sandra and lived in the apartment complex under the XXXenophile on 86th Street.

(4684 E. 86th St., Samus's suit specified, after checking a directory.)

But when Samus got there, the landlord said nobody by the name of Sandra had ever lived there as far as he knew. He was lying, and after Samus expressed her disapproval in fairly direct _forceful_ tones, the landlord admitted that he'd kicked Sandra Bhudia out a week ago for not paying her rent. Apparently she and Lopes were no longer together, and without Lopes's occasional bursts of inexplicable prosperity, she couldn't afford the flat on her own anymore. He said he didn't know where she'd gone, but if it was Lopes that Samus was looking for, the best places to check would be bars, liquor stores, and gutters, and not necessarily in that order.

The landlord thought this was very funny; Samus less so. She still thanked him and headed back to try to find the prostitute again, but since the woman wasn't at the same street corner, Samus was out of leads altogether.

Shallah.

A green light began to beep at the corner of her Heads Up Display.

"Samus, can you talk?" scrolled across. It was Mack.

"I can talk," Samus answered via audio. She could fake a visual to go along with it, but Mack had gotten used to just hearing from her. "Is something the matter?"

"Yes, and no," Mack said. "Grado, my dear old friend, went and got himself killed."

"What happened? Are you all right?" Samus began to map out the quickest route back to the casino.

Mack laughed at her; she realized her concern had been misplaced — and too transparent.

"I'm surrounded by a lot of mean looking guys with pulse rifles, but they're looking _out_ for me, not looking for me," Mack said. "Turns out Grado bowed up against the wrong Xigs in our financial meeting, and they caught him in the bathroom a little while later. Caught his bodyguard with his pants down, and shot Grado in the chest on the head."

Samus's IPU reminded her "head" was slang for toilet, and she was puzzled by her boss's flippancy.

"Anyway," Mack continued, "everybody heard the gunshots ring out, and next thing we saw two Xions running out of the bathroom, so all my guys gunned them down when they wouldn't surrender. Terrible mess, all of it. But not without its opportunities."

Samus' mouth tasted of bile.

"Mack, did you have something to do with this?"

He raised an eyebrow.

"Now Samus, you know my rule about not asking questions you don't want the answers to. Plausible deniability is a vastly underrated gift. The important thing as far as you and I and anyone else is concerned is that Grado had a very public fight and ended up getting killed, apparently by those same people, and it looks like there's about to be a war."

"So do I need to come back in?"

"No, you need to find Lopes and bring him back so we can save some face in whole clusterfuck. The Xions want in, they want us out — by out I mean dead — and I need to show everybody else Humans aren't as completely weak and incompetent as Grado has made us out to be."

"That isn't the real reason."

"It's reason enough for you, though, isn't it?" Mack said, pointedly. "The bottom line is things have changed, but not for you. So where are you at on your end of this whole deal?"

"I'm… close," Samus said.

"Just what I like to hear. I don't expect to have to contact you again in the next few hours, so the next time I hear from you, I want Lopes slung over your shoulder, got me?"

"Yes sir."

The connection cut out and Samus was left standing on the street corner, trying to remember why she needed to catch up with that missing whore.

Instead, she thought some more about what the landlord had said and asked her IPU how many liquor stores or bars it could call for her, asking about Lopes. It said it could call about seven at once, depending on how intricate the conversations got to be, and even that would mean risking Turing test failure. Samus gambled that if Lopes had money again, he'd be going into bars and celebrating still. She told it to use a young, flirty-sounding Human female voice (not her own) and say something about Lopes having bought her a drink recently at the bar.

Unfortunately, Megabucks had about 600 bars, and half again as many liquor stores. It might take her up to 30 seconds for each conversation to fully determine whether Lopes was familiar or not. She hoped the pretty voice would cover for any artificiality in the actual conversations, and had the IPU start calling up bars and liquors stores at a ratio of 5 to 2. For the first time in a while, her Internal Processing Unit got a chance to really stretch itself. She couldn't remember the last time the coolant system had had to kick on for the processors, and now she noticed her walking starting to get herky-jerky. Having no real idea where she was going yet, she sat herself down in an alley, turned off some unnecessary functions, and tilted her head back to rest.

A Human bum nearby woke and sat up quickly. His clothes, yellow with dried sweat, were soaked with something wet now, but luckily Samus's IPU was too busy to run a chemical analysis.

"My eyeballs are floating," the man mumbled from behind a dilapidated and incomplete set of teeth.

"My beak is broken and worn," Samus said absentmindedly. "It grinds and scrapes, almost to dust."

"You're a girl! By the Master, how young are you?" the man exclaimed, and Samus remembered she'd switched her voxcoder off. She swore in her head, but didn't bother to turn it back on.

"Have you ever heard of João Lopes?" Samus asked, ignoring his own question. She stole some processing power to display the holovid face. Four kilometers away, the manager of a liquor store furrowed her brow listening to the voice of a young woman who ended all of her questions in a lower pitch than what she'd started.

"Never in my life," the man answered, honestly.

Samus grunted as response. He looked her up and down, licking his lips compulsively, and Samus had vague dread about what the man's next words would be.

"Miss, a well-to-do lady like you wouldn't be able to spare a Yire or two on a down on his luck old gambler, would you?"

She cocked her head to the side as an idea came to her. Samus stopped her suit from beginning new calls and reached into the compartment of petty Fisks. Drawing out a card that read 100 Yire, she tossed it over to him.

He caught it and immediately began thanking her.

"Oh miss, thank you so much. I'm so hungry."

Her IPU ran a brief medical diagnosis and saw that was literally true, but not as he was intending it. As she'd assumed.

"For me, you look more thirsty than hungry," Samus said, standing up. "Where is the best place to get drunk around on the cheap?"

"That all sorta depends," the bum said. He took a few moments to consider. "Now, for malt liquor, store brand Pop-N-Go is good. For straight liquor, Pinky's has about everything you need, but Ruel's will get you furthest on the least. If you're feeling social, you go over to Grant's, but it's the Orange Moon that knows how to treat a feller right."

Her IPU looked up each store and began making calls.

"Wait, are you the girl who talked to João from two nights ago?" she heard her IPU patch one bartender through, a moment later.

Samus tossed the bum another Yire, this one 2,000.

"_Drown_ your eyeballs tonight, old man," Samus said, walking out of the alley.

And she was on her way.

* * *

_**The Orange Moon**_**  
1810 GFST**

Samus walked in and saw that The Orange Moon was not very busy. Tables were empty, a few pool hounds of various races hovered over the billiards, and a ropey old Human lady sat in front of the single video slot machine. The bartender had nothing to do but clean dirty glasses in optimistic preparation for a rush. Well, it was still early yet.

Samus went up to the bar and stood, distrusting the stools. Beside her sat a Jorg in a thick overcoat and a Solifugue, nude but for his wings, discussing the effect of the local climate on their glands, in some variation of High Carapacean. Samus let her IPU work on figuring it out, as a reward for finding this place.

"Fenner Hasan," Samus said, reading the bartender's registration documents.

"Yes," the man said, setting down the most recent empty glass. "Can I help you, sir?"

"I'm looking to speak with João Lopes. What do you know about him?"

Hasan's eyes narrowed at the mention.

"You're the second person to ask me about him the past 20 minutes. What do you have to do with the girl who just called here?"

"A mutual friend. I was hoping she could help me, but you ended the conversation with her rather abruptly didn't you?"

Hasan took a measured look at Samus.

"No one calls up here two days after to thank a greasy old drunk for giving her cash, especially not a woman like _that_." He scratched his short beard at the chin as his eyes kept darting to the front door and back to Samus. "You're with the casino, aren't you? A Dead Red."

"Yes," Samus answered. In her current capacity, it was for all intents and purposes true.

"You're too late. He spent almost all of his money, and got mugged for the rest," Hasan said, shrugging. "He's dead. Sorry."

Samus's IPU noted the Jorg to her right had taken a sudden interest in their conversation. The suit also noticed Hasan was lying, at least partially.

"He isn't dead, but if _you_ don't want to be, it's in your best interest not to be dishonest with me." Samus said the statement coldly. Through her voxcoder, it sounded absolutely deadly. Of course if she told her employers about it, it probably would be.

She decided honesty was the best tactic for her as well.

"There's not much you can do to help Lopes now. He should not have won so much money from the sort of people I work for. You can't help him, but you can help yourself. We won't be able to track down _every_ place in town he spent their money. I don't have to let them know he spent some, apparently a lot of it, here. Because they will come soon, and they will want _interest_ when they do."

Hasan considered for about half a minute, then sighed, and told her the whole thing. The Orange Moon had been the last hop on a multi-day binge and he'd picked up the tab of everyone he could get his hands on, especially there. Then he'd left, broke or nearly so, wandered a couple of blocks, and gotten jumped for whatever little he had left, plus several broken bones.

"He got emergency treatment and sent somewhere else, I really don't know," Hasan said. "If he couldn't pay for anything, he's as likely to have gotten dumped out into the street as anywhere. That's the truth."

"I need better than that," Samus warned.

"They probably sent him to the clinic," the woman at the slot machine said, continuing to play. "The Merichane Clinic. That's where I go when I need to loan organs or get medicine."

"Why would he be there?"

"It's run by Kathliks. They don't want money, just souls," the woman said. She didn't smile. "The clinic took care of that guy who got stabbed at Oblique across the way, didn't they Fenn?"

Hasan didn't say anything, but Samus checked and saw it was easily the closest free clinic around. If it hadn't been dumped into the street, or handed over to the morgue, he'd likely be there.

"Thank you," Samus said to the woman, then again to Hasan, who cursed. She ran as quickly as she could, swerving through people, rollers, street signs; quickly as she could was very fast indeed. Lopes had to be there. She willed it so.

The clinic building was large but sprawling squat, and white, or the color white turns in the tropics when no one has bothered to repaint it in at least 10 years. Going in through the wide automatic doors, she found an emergency waiting room full of people groaning and waiting for care they would not get for several more hours, if at all. A nurse in a white pantsuit with a red cross down the middle told her she'd have to take a number and wait, and Samus let her know that would not be possible.

"Federal rights," she said, and gave the nurse her registration number.

The nurse frowned but Samus was let to go through the double doors to the healthcare auditorium. The groaning was worse here. As Samus's IPU scanned the row after row of stained bedsheets and charts, she wondered if this was the place people came to get help or to die. She noted that she didn't have much time left, but as she walked down the aisles, couldn't help but jack in to one of the electronic charts and start correcting diagnoses. For all the good it would do.

"What are you doing?" the nurse asked.

"I'm trying to find my bounty without wasting any more of your time," Samus said. That was also true.

Before long, she found him. At the end of a long row, of course, as everything about this had been.

"Excuse me," Samus said, and began walking toward it. She was there before long, staring down at the skinny man with cirrhosis, jaundice, a broken wrist, fibula and punctured lung, along with a severe concussion. His breathing machine kept the silence from becoming too awkward as she watched him. Finally she called.

"Tell me you have good news, Samus."

"I do. I've found Lopes."

* * *

**Megabucks City  
1930 GFST**

Behind the clinic in the path leading to the skyport, Samus stood with Mack as they watched the orderlies lift a gurney carrying the unconscious Lopes towards his pursuers. He and Samus were the only thing between him and a spacecraft packed full of Xions.

Mack had just seen the damage on Lopes for the first time, and he nodded a little before starting to speak.

"You did good, Samus. You found a nobody in a packed city in a few hours. Now everyone knows no one can hide from us — from you — for long, and no one can get away with any insult. It looks better that you brought him in this way, really." Mack snorted. "You know, one time, your old buddy Mr. Yomo got a contract based on my recommendation. He was supposed to snuff some asshole on his way to work. Next day I hear the guy was found hugging a viewscreen in the bathtub, fried all to hell but no signs of lacerations or forced entry or foul play.

"I said, 'Revlen, that's amazing! How'd you pull it off to look like a suicide?' And then he told me he'd been waiting in a roller outside all that night and morning, and fell asleep until the platform security showed up. Turns out the guy's fiancé was sleeping around on him and he'd found out the night before. 'Course, like an idiot I let Revlen take credit and get paid. Sometimes it's better to be lucky than good. But luck catches up with you eventually."

Mack watched the orderlies roll the unconscious gambler towards them. They stopped momentarily, and nodded towards Mack. He walked up beside Lopes, and reached for something inside of his own pocket. Samus stared as Mack placed a very small, very dangerous device in Lopes's open hand and closed a fist around it. Then Mack nodded, and the orderlies resumed pushing the gurney up the narrow ramp to the waiting spacecraft.

"Sir, what are you doing?" Samus finally asked.

"He's unconscious now. When he wakes up, or even before, those Xigs are going to do things to him that can't even be properly imagined by someone who hasn't seen it."

As if proving his point, some of the younger Xions began to whoop at the sight of their prize, strapped down and coming to join them.

"If I was him," Mack mused aloud, "I don't think I'd be looking forward to waking up."

"Mack, sir, I understand that, but—"

"Samus, we're about to take back the Dead Reds and remold it in our image. Isn't that what you want?"

"Yes."

"To do that, we're going to have to get rid of a lot of the stupid, brutish parts." He sighed and turned to look at her. "I can't do it without you, but I'm going to try anyway. Will you help me?"

"They'll know it's you that did this," Samus said after a long pause.

"Yes," he answered immediately. "And with you with me, they'll know I can get them anywhere, in any way I like."

They stood quietly for a few minutes.

"I'm with you," Samus whispered. It sounded bolder when Mack heard it.

Finally, the ship lifted off of the ground and got about 30 meters in the air cohesively before its pieces abruptly decided to go separately in every direction due to the suggestion of a fairly persuasive and quite large explosion that had appeared inside it.

"Good," Mack said as scraps and burning metal rained down around them. "We've got a lot of work ahead of us."

* * *

**~See You Next Mission~**

* * *

The secret to happiness is to find something you love doing and con someone into paying you to do it. Manage that, and you'll never work a day in your life.

**Next brief:** Blood Money


	12. Brief: Blood Money

_Episode: Blood Money_

* * *

**Darcia Platform of the Middle-Esper System  
Guyo's Friendly Neighborhood Bakery  
0445 GFST  
15-01-09 GFSD**

Smack smack smack.

It's a wet sound, a sick sound, but it comes regular as clockwork mechanical and the minutes tick by faster you could keep up with them if you tried. But you don't. No reason to. Just enjoy the moment for what it is and get lost listening to the symphony stereophonic, the most beautiful, familiar serenade your ears have ever heard.

Smack smack smack.

Blood splatters and stains, victim, floor, and abusers. There's broken skin, shining welts, and cracked bones — everything you might expect and more. It's messy business, but that's the way it should be. Messy and personal. The groans come less often, especially now, and there's nothing regular to them, just random exclamations of protest, cursing, but more often submission. Getting close now.

Smack smack smack.

A lovely onomatopoeia if ever one there was — so long as you're on the right side of it and not left alone to suffer. It's good work if you can get it. Hard work, too, but the best work usually is. This bastard didn't pay to be protected, but now he wishes he did. Says so, in fact. He'll pay twice as much now, ten times as much, whatever you want, just God, please God stop hitting him. Too late for that now, you tell him, maybe yesterday that would have been enough, but too late now.

You give him a kick to the ribs, forcing out another groan, deeper than usual. That one was broken already, you guess. He vomits, and you know you guessed right. The floor is a mess, a reflection of its owner. Or it would be if it wasn't so dark inside. The morning lights haven't come on yet so the pool of blood under him is just wet and messy with what's come out of him so far. That's good enough. Any more and he'll be dead. He's dying now, and that's enough.

"Alright boys, we're done here," you say, glad you got your fill before it was too late. "Pick him up and take him outside, then let's get outta here."

"You sure you don't want to take him to get some help, boss?" someone says. One of your idiots. He's young and especially pale. His muscular face shines bright with stupidity. You can't remember his name, but he's just like the other three you brought with you. He keeps talking. "Maybe we shoulda gone easier on him. He looks kinda bad for only owing us 50,000."

You try to stay calm. Your doctor said you should watch your blood pressure. Yeah, you're watching it shoot up right now.

"That's the point," you start explaining, calmly as you can. "We aren't beating him up for what he owes us, it's for what everybody _else_ does." Blank looks on all their faces. You start over. "He only owed fifty thousand for protection, something everybody around here knows. They also know he didn't pay up this week, so now they're all starting to think about doing the same thing. Maybe they can get away with it for one week, they figure. The idea's in their heads already, so we gotta do something to get it out, right?" Your idiots nod but their expressions haven't changed. "If we beat the shit out of a guy who owes fifty thousand, we don't change nobody's mind because they already expect that. They figure maybe it's worth the risk to skip pay once or twice. So then we gotta come back here every time some prick doesn't want to pay up his money and beat the shit out of him, too."

"I don't mind coming back, boss. This is kinda fun," a different idiot says, smiling his head off. You know his name—Toven—but you're not going to bother to use it.

"But _I_ do mind," you say; you can feel the anger rising, suddenly out of your grasp, " 'cause unlike _you _jackasses I got more important things to do with my time than beat on some helpless bastard who owes the Reds a little bit of money! We beat a guy to death over 50,000 Yire and nobody on this block is gonna miss a payment for the next ten _years_, which means _I _don't gotta come back here for the next ten years. So dump him out in the street, and we'll all get the fuck outta here!"

They shrug, all four of them at once like they're the same person. They don't respect you anymore, none of them do. After that day in the machine shop, not ever again. They're afraid of you, they're loyal to you, and they'll do what you say, but after what happened that day in the shop, they'll never respect you again. You got made a fool of and everyone heard about it.

You turn and start heading for the backdoor.

You told them you didn't want to come back here in ten years, but you know what they were thinking. If you're still around in _two_ years, it'll be a surprise. Your days are numbered, and they're just waiting for you to die. If only your son was here… You start to sigh, but catch yourself.

You look over your shoulder and see two of your thugs carrying the shop owner out the front door, a trail of blood behind him. At least you'll outlast _that_ poor son of a bitch. You turn forward again. The other two thugs are at your shoulders and one goes ahead of you to open the backdoor for you. You see your roller is waiting in the alley, and Nyson is with it. He opens the front passenger door for you and you get inside. It's comfortable and your legs are thankful for the rest. You'd forgotten how much all of this takes its toll on you. Nyson shuts the door for you and starts to go around to get in the driver's seat. Now you sigh, just before the other two thugs get in backseat behind you. You're old, too old. You think it, but keep the thoughts off your face. You've got nothing left to give and no one to want it if you did. You should retire, but you couldn't be happy doing anything else, and you know it. You're just stuck where you are. The Kathliks would call it purgatory. As many sins as you've racked up over the years, you could be here awhile.

Out of the corner of your eye, you think you see something in the backscreen and you glance down, thinking at first something's just stuck on the lens. But you look closer and you see that it's a man, or at least something man-shaped. You increase the detail and see it's a suit of armor. A second later, you recognize him, and your blood pressure shoots through the roof.

"Samus!" you growl. But your men have already seen him, and they grab for pulse rifles lying in the back of the roller. Samus still doesn't move, not even when they get out and point the rifles at him. But as they start to pull the triggers, you see Samus fire twice in the time it takes you to blink, and both men drop—dead or unconscious, you don't know. You start to turn to Nyson to tell him to gun it and get you away from there, but before you can, you're slammed back against your seat, and Nyson accelerates as fast as the machine is able, turns the corner onto a street.

You strap in, angry, but glad to see the alley quickly disappearing behind you in the backscreen. Then you see Samus step out of the alleyway and start to run. You think he's crazy trying to catch up to a quality roller when it has this much of a headstart on him, but the crazier thing is that he keeps getting bigger and bigger in your view. His arms and legs pump up and down like pistons, violent and powerful.

You call your other two men and ask them where they are. They say they just set the shop owner down and are getting in their roller to go back home. You tell them to hurry up and get their asses to where you are because you're being chased—Nyson swerves around a slower roller in front of you—by a guy in a powered suit and you need backup. Quick. They promise to get to you as quick as possible, but you know better than to expect that. Worthless sons of bitches. You slam the audio down.

Nyson is going as fast as the roller and the streets will let him, and still Samus is gaining. You reach into your coat and pull out a low grade pistol. You don't know what you're doing, but you don't know what else to do. You roll down the window and lean out. You get a bead on him and take the shot, then a dozen of them. Most miss, but a few hit and one gets Samus right in front of the helmet. He's still gaining. He just keeps coming, faster and faster. Relentless. He's maybe twenty meters behind you now. You fire a few more times, but then Nyson grabs you and pulls you back in the car. You drop your pistol onto the street. You want to yell at him for causing it, but you can't. You're too afraid and you let yourself admit it.

You check the backscreen again and can't see Samus anymore. Nyson has noticed too, but he's not slowing down. No point in risking anything.

Suddenly the roller is jolted as something heavy falls on its front hood. The back end lifts up and the front engine is completely ruined, but it takes awhile for the vehicle to skid to a stop and you try to use that time to recover your wits. Now you can see it was Samus who landed on the roller, but can't imagine how he did it. You try to open the door to get out, but you can't move. Something happened to you, you don't know what. The roof overhead is ripped open like it's made of aluminum foil and a bright light with a cannon following behind it is shoved inside.

"Twitch, and I shoot," Samus says with his automated voice. The cannon is pointed right at Nyson, but Nyson does more than twitch. He lunges forward—to do what, you don't know—and is immediately shot. He sinks down, and you are as alone as you've ever been in your life. You could try something, but you aren't stupid. You're his now, and you both know it.

Samus sticks his head deeper into the roller and stares at you through his visor. You can't see anything but your own reflection. You look old, shriveled, frightened, pathetic. You are, you are, you are.

"Good morning, Papa Roft. Good morning and good-bye," Samus says, flatly as clockwork mechanical, and points his cannon at you. "Until we meet again."

You see a light, you fall into darkness. You get lost looking for the image incandescent, the most terrible, ineffable sight your eyes have ever seen.

* * *

**~See You Next Mission~  
**

* * *

I'm not scared! I'm not scared! I don't care what you think. I'm brave, and I can face anything!

**Next episode:** Yellow Belly


	13. Episode 10: Yellow-Belly

_Episode: Yellow-Belly_

* * *

**Planet Madison  
1945 GFST  
20-01-09 GFSD**

When the doors shut behind Mack's head and the airlock hissed closed, his stomach dropped a moment before the floor did, and for the latest, countless time he remembered how he hated riding the elevator down from orbit.

The downward acceleration of the platform functioned to transition him from weightlessness to anti-gravity, and strapped in, he felt pulled toward the ceiling; the Dead Red syndicate underboss knew the two Human bodyguards with him did as well. Still, the green ocean horizon of the planet below rose in his vision, and in it the giant dusty red continent, and on that his destination, the home of Boss Roth growing larger all the time.

The jagged mineral features of the land could have been smoothed out and made more habitable, and a spaceport could have been built at any time. But the mining conglomerate had never bothered to do it before they folded operations there, and the Dead Reds had considered the inaccessibility a feature, not a detraction, when they bought it. The fortresses of prior, barbarous civilizations had battlements and drawbridges; Roth had surface-to-air remote defenses to blow unwanted spaceships out of the sky and but one thin road from the elevator to his home carved into the almost impenetrable rock so no more than a single roller could pass through at a time.

Fortress, yes, or maybe a palace. Five stories tall at its highest point, the transformed mining complex sprawled out with numerous buildings and gardens that filled nearly a hectare. Much was devoted to guesthouses. The families of his underbosses stayed with him, supposedly as an honor. Lacking legitimate children and immediate family, Mack felt no dishonor in denying Roth more hostages. But the Boss never let him forget that meant he couldn't be trusted, not really. And the Boss could keep his finger on other things.

An hour later, the container decelerated to weightlessness, then slowed so that the pull of the planet's mass began to reassert itself, first slight, but growing stronger.

Roth wasn't fooling anyone. He was king of the Dead Reds, Emperor Supreme, and this was the palace he used to rule his empire. But, His Majesty was ill and had no heir. Very soon there would be a new king, but who would this person be?

The Xions and Humans were in the process of figuring this out for themselves. So was Mack.

Mack felt the platform shift slightly as if losing weight, and he knew why. No turning back now.

The elevator continued its descent, but already it was slowing. Gravity had taken over.

* * *

The roller that had picked them up from the elevator's base arrived near the complex's entrance and Mack stepped out. His bodyguards Vance and Dorrian got out with him, but so did the Xig driver, and a half dozen of Roth's men came out from behind the gate to meet them. One was in a complete powered exoskeleton, while the two Pixies, six-eyes impenetrable, looked to have lower-body partial suits reinforcing their thin legs under loose-fitting robes. Yet all six guards had weapons that could separate Mack's body into its finer elements in an instant, and none looked disinclined to do so.

He smiled at Roth's men, but they didn't return the expression in form or kind. Four stayed outside with Vance and Dorrian while Mack continued inside alone with the two Pixy Roth soldiers flanking him, fluttering their papery wings. Not for the first time, Mack realized that he might not get to walk outside again. But there was nothing else he could do except go on inside.

The Darcian situation, the seized arms shipment, and especially that trouble with the Feds over the casino had caused tensions to rise within the organization. Nothing new, of course, but with the old man unable to throw his weight around to settle things, everyone was just waiting for his sickbed to become a deathbed.

Except Mack hadn't waited. There was a ship full of Xigs that wasn't full of Xigs anymore, or even a ship. A well-placed bomb had taken care of that. Then the casino full of the Xions that hadn't been caught on the ship had done a butcher's work on a handful of Humans still at the casino they _thought_ were involved in it, but by then Mack was off of the planet and on to more business. That was a week ago. No one could prove it had been him behind it, and technically it had been the Xions who started it by killing the outgoing Human casino chief for no good reason, but everyone knew. Or at least Roth did. Dying, but not dead, the emperor still had to be obeyed.

Inside the palace, well-dressed gangsters of mostly Human relation stood around, chatting. Some were guards, but there were more here than usual for that. One of them, a pale younger Human of platformer descent, caught Mack's eye as the underboss passed by and went up the stairs. Giving a short nod, his eyes followed Mack as though he were climbing a gallows. Christ.

Two sets of stairs later, Mack was where he'd crossed three star systems to be. He wished there was a third set of stairs. Or a fourth star system. Instead, he got a couple more minutes to stand outside.

Mack was a Human, the son and grandson of Federation colonists, now long dead. And Mack had to admit, it was good to be Human. Some other races won the genetic lottery, lived longer, were born smarter, or had more intense orgasms.

Yet, if you were to ask him or pretty much anyone else, really, what it was they'd like to be born as given the choice, Human was the only right answer. In the Galactic Federation, _homo sapiens_ got the same official rights or privileges most other races got, and if you were unlucky enough to be born on the wrong planet or platform, life was going to be miserable no matter what shape and with what proteins your DNA wound itself together. But it was good to be Human, and what people forgot was that that wasn't always so.

Back when Humans had first begun to settle the Outer Rim, back when the Federation was still consolidating the gains of its "nonconsensual" member states and didn't have the interest or capacity for further expansion, being Human was more curse than blessing. They had less rights, no privileges. It didn't matter if you were a Human colonist, merchant, or adventurer: at some level, locals saw you as representing the Federation, and you were likely as not to some day wake up to be shoved against a wall and shot.

The Human ghettos were a joke on the Central Planets but very real out here. It made sense in those days to have someone there to protect you, and if Humans had to go outside of the law to do it, that's what they'd do. The Dead Reds were the only reason Humans survived at all in some places.

There was some propaganda to that. Dead Reds had been involved in prostitution, gambling, and euphemistic kind of protection, as well as worse. But the largely Human syndicate was here before the Feds showed up, and when the Feds did show up, Humans—including the Dead Reds—were here to make sure the Outer Rim joined the Federation more or less peaceably.

The Federation's arrival was the best thing to ever happen to the Dead Reds, and if Reds didn't get along so well with the Federation's direct administrators, the fiefdoms themselves, well, that was unfortunate, and hopefully the Federation didn't take it personal.

On the other hand, Xions had a history completely separate to the Dead Reds. It should have stayed that way.

Xions had tried to kill all of the Humans in their neck of the woods and failed, then they'd tried to keep the Federation out of their neck of the woods and failed, then they'd try to keep the Federation out of their home planet and gotten kicked out of it themselves. Which was really the shame of the whole thing because forcing Xions into exile was like taking a man infected with Tuluktian Pusitis and throwing him into a woodchipper.

They were tough, they were mean, and they were stupid, at least by Mack's standards, so Xions made for good footsoldiers when you needed to shake down someone or go to war with another syndicate. Instead of losing anyone valuable, you could just send a bunch of Xions to do the shooting for you. The other guys probably had some Xions working for them, too, so some Xions were going to get killed no matter what, and everyone was going to win.

But Xions integrated themselves more and more into the syndicates, the Black Obelisks and Five Eyes in particular, and now they were trying to do the same to the Dead Reds. And Mack wasn't about to let that happen.

"The Boss will see you now," one of the guards, this one a Xion, said as the attending Human doctor walked out of the bedroom. Mack nodded and got up to go inside. The doctor's face looked quite grim. It wouldn't be long now.

Mack walked into the room calmly, knowing whatever was going to happen had already been decided before he arrived there. Roth always made his decisions like that; the only thing that would kill you for sure was not showing up at all. Roth was a Grade-A prick, no two ways about it, but he was a consistent prick.

Still, the image in Mack's mind's eye didn't match the reality he saw before him as he approached the bed and sat in a nearby chair. The fierce scowl was gone, the powerful neck had shrunk. His hair had turned white years ago, but now it along with his mustache and beard had grown long. The eyes are windows to the soul, or something, Mack remembered, and in Roth's eyes Mack could still see the same controlled power and intimidation that could reduce a grown man to tears if focused with the right intensity. But right now, they were clouded. Yeah, he was the same prick, but now he was an old, saggy, impotent prick, lying in his bed with an oxygen tent separating him from the rest of the world.

"How you feeling, Boss?" Mack asked after someone shut the door behind them and they were actually alone.

"I feel like I died, got buried, got dug up, and stuck in a bigger coffin," Roth said, laughing at his own joke before it turned into vicious coughs. "Actually, after all this I've been through lately, dying ain't gonna be half bad."

"Nah, you still got a long time, Boss," Mack said with a smile, "a long time before you need to start thinking about that."

"Don't bullshit me, Mack. I may be about to give up the ghost, but I ain't senile enough not to know it, so don't bullshit me," Roth growled. He paused and continued more softly, "You should have been a salesman, selling something, you know that? Or even better, some kind of politician. You probably still could."

"Yeah."

"Oh, but that's right. 'Senator Mack' and 'Mack the Salesman' don't have quite the same ring to them as — what was it we used to call you?"

Mack looked down at his feet.

"Mack the Knife," he muttered.

"Sorry, my ears are going on me. What did you say?"

"Mack the Knife," Mack hissed.

"That's it," Roth said, nodding his head and smiling, "Mack the Knife. Oh, I remember how you used to do when I first heard about you, mugging people on side streets and alleyways. You was smart about it, too, that's what I remember. You'd hang around places people'd bring their dates and get them going to it instead of going home 'cause you said they always had more money that way. And payday, oh every payday people didn't want to walk home, not with Mack the Knife out on the docks to roll them. Patient, careful, and cruel," Roth whistled, "Oh Mack, so cruel. You could never just take their money and leave, could you? Not even the couples. Not Mack the Knife."

"People change," Mack said. "That was a long time ago."

"I blinked sucking on my mother's tit and I opened them an old man. Don't tell me it was a long time ago. And people don't change that much, anyhow," Roth corrected. "You smile more and you got a gut 'stead of just a belly, but you're still the same person you was then. Just as cruel, too."

Mack looked down at his feet again.

"Hey, do you remember that job you pulled in the bar, back in, oh must've been '87 or so?" Roth continued. "Some stool pigeon sitting right on a stool of his own, you sat right down beside him and bought a beer. That pigeon known we was after him, but he didn't even _smell_ you comin'. Next thing you know you just slid that that knife between his ribs easy as you please, finished your beer, and left. So smooth the bastard didn't scream, didn't wince, didn't even feel it till the knife was already back out and he was already dead. Nobody even realized it until they tried to wake him for the last call. Mack the Knife we called you, and Mack the goddamned Knife you were."

"Why did you want to see me, Boss?" Mack demanded as deferentially as possible.

"I don't have long Mack, everybody knows that. I know everybody knows that. I hear 'em talking. When I go, it doesn't matter who I pick, somebody's going to be upset and then all hell's gonna break loose. Don't tell me you didn't already know that, neither."

"I won't. I did."

"And don't tell me you don't consider this a great opportunity to get where you want to be." Roth sat up and pointed an accusatory finger at Mack. "Don't think I forgot how you got to where you are, or how I helped you. Don't think I don't know you aren't satisfied with staying where you are now. Don't think—" he fell back into his bed and spent a few moments catching deep breaths. "Don't think I don't know what game you're playing, Mack. I do."

Mack didn't say anything, tried not to focus on anything but keeping his breathing steady and his outward appearance as calm as Humanly possible. Roth was studying him, and for a solid minute of silence, they did nothing but look at one another. Finally it was Roth who broke the stare, turning his head to the opposite wall.

"I've lived a long time and I made my mistakes with the Reds over the years, but the one thing I could say was I kept us peaceful. I kept us alive. You know how?" Roth said. Mack shook his head. "Loyalty. Nobody working for me ever had to worry something would happen to them if they hadn't done nothing to deserve it. I never stabbed nobody in the back. That's why I ain't killed you yet when by all rights I oughta had some Xigs do you before you even got out of the lift. And I thought a lot about doin' it anyway, too. Hey, look at my feet."

"What?" Mack asked, still a little shaken by the acknowledgment of how close he'd come to death, though he thought he'd known it already.

"Look at my feet," Roth repeated.

"What about them? A little pale maybe, but they look like normal feet, Boss."

"Exactly. If you'd asked me 60 years ago whether I thought I'd die with my shoes off, I'd have called you crazy or a damn fool or both. Only a peaceable man dies able to see his toes." He wiggled them for effect. "Thing is," he continued, "no matter who wins, the fighting is going to kill the Reds," Roth said abruptly, "boots on. Not a quiet or peaceful death, but violent and bloody. Even if I'd killed you, it would have happened anyway. But let me die with peace. Wait a few more days to make your real move against the rest, a week on the outside, then I'll be gone. It's the last wish of a dying man. Tarnish a dead man's legacy, but let him die before you do it."

He turned to look Mack in the eyes again.

"Is the knife in yet?" Roth asked softly.

Mack glanced at his feet, then the opposite wall, and finally back at Roth again. He shrugged.

"Not anymore."

Roth nodded, waved Mack away with his hand, and said nothing more. Mack had never come within three meters of him.

Mack stood up, gave a short bow and left the room, without looking back. He shut the door behind him.

In the hallway, an expensive rug from a long extinct civilization was now stained with pooling blood. Two crumpled guards lay near the door but their bodies were still breathing: Samus Aran.

Looking out a window, Mack caught sight of the black and red figure arcing through the air firing canon blasts at some unseen enemy. Below the powered exoskeleton, Dead Red soldiers pushed forward toward an unseen enemy, but didn't look to have much left to do. The Roth loyalists and otherwise Xion sympathizers hadn't been prepared for anything happening here, especially not a Samus.

He heard footsteps coming up the stairs and his fingers slid reflexively toward the short glass knife in the back of his inner thigh. But no, the face's allegiance was friendly.

"He made it planetside from the space jump fine, and everything is going peachy, Boss," Mack heard Dorrian say. Mack didn't have to say that he already knew it. If Samus hadn't made it to the control tower, Mack would have heard the detonations of the transport ships, and likely been killed.

"Do we have all the Xig wives and kids secured yet?" Mack asked.

"Not that I know," Dorrian said. "They're working on it currently."

"Samus is working on it," Mack clarified, but not bitterly. "If they make it to the mineshaft vault, just seal them in. It doesn't matter if they never come out again as long as they don't get away."

Dorrian nodded and went away. Mack went back to the window.

The jump had actually been the independent bounty hunter's own idea, and he'd had to campaign hard to sell Mack on it. Aran would have to manage to descend independently from the space elevator, keep shields on well enough to not burn up, use anti-gravity boosters at the right times to slow down, and parachute in to arrive to begin his assault on one of the most secure syndicate planets in the Galactic Federation before Mack's ships started coming in to let more Reds down over the palace.

In the plan, Mack had been more than just a conceit. Something to give Boss Roth and the planet's security a reason to be distracted. But that was all unnecessary, he realized. Samus could have done it all on his own, made himself the new boss, and no one here could have stopped him.

Thankfully Aran didn't realize that, Mack thought.

Yet.

* * *

**IniBron Consolidated Platform  
IBCP Interstellar Aquatic Hatchery (Sponsored by Lükfor)  
0618 GFST  
22-01-09 GFSD**

The feeding level of the hatchery put all of the tanks just under flush with the floor panels, but everything was made to be transparent so that you could feel as though an ocean was beneath your feet at all times. Surrounded by all manner of marine creature bursting free into a new life, Mack did his best to downplay obvious correlations in his own mind.

But here it was. Nearly all of the important Xigs in front of him on the concrete floor of the hatchery — almost 30 — stripped naked but for fetters, and even more constrained by the knowledge that their families were completely under Mack's thumb. So either the existing Xion bosses could make a deal and preserve some of their status, or they could watch as once-trifling rivals supplanted them.

"So, that's your bargaining position, and it gets worse the longer you keep considering it," Mack finished. "In a few days, it won't even be worth talking to you. If it even still is."

Behind him, a collection of Human Dead Reads that stood to benefit from the new way of things — some of them underbosses and lieutenants but most of them just rank-and-file gangsters, thugs, killers. Yet Samus Aran silently stood there as well, and even while Mack had been talking, he felt like most of the attention was focused on the bounty hunter in the now mostly silver powered exoskeleton. Flakes of black, red and even a little gold still clung in patches. Mack's hound had been busy, and many of those gathered naked now had been caught by Samus alone.

Papa Roft, still a supposed Dead Red underboss, spat on the ground.

"You'll never own the Reds, Messer. Cowardice is something you can _smell_, and everyone smells it on you now."

Mack shifted his weight toward the elder Xion, whose hands were still bound behind his back. Roft wasn't so dangerous anymore, but Mack felt improper delight in watching him suffer.

"You're old Roft, and you'll be gone soon." Mack spread his hands to include the rest of the group. "But there are some here who may still be alive in a year. Maybe they have more to think about, regarding their welfare."

The others seemed to consider this, but Roft didn't let up.

"Nah, as long as we look you in the eyes, we'll be just fine," the Xion said. "You ever kill somebody looking at you, or was it only when their back was turned, Mack the Knife?"

Mack's lips pulled tight across his face.

"To be honest," Mack said, "most of the time, I didn't have to do anything at all."

Vance and another burly Human stepped forward and grabbed Roft, one by the back of his neck, the other by his crotch. The old Xion howled in spite of himself, but the pair walked Roft over to the edge of one of the tanks. Bony juvenile marine carnivores swam below.

Dutifully, Vance and one of Mack's other men held the Xion elder out over the water, now teeming with the movements of the swirling sharp creatures, all hunger and anticipation and snapping.

"So, I can dispose of you all messily now, along with your kin, or wait until the ambitious still on the loose fill your places and do it then, _or_," Mack purred, "or we can make a deal now that's most advantageous to all of us."

"Mack the Faggot!" Roft screamed. "Mack the Chickenshit!"

Mack sighed, then nodded.

"They're going to start with your toes, you know," Mack remarked softly as his men sat Roft on the ground with legs pointed so that if he relaxed them, they'd dip into the water. Roft didn't relax his legs. "Funny thing about the gums on those things," Mack added, gesturing to the grinning creatures in the tank, "they bite awful hard, but it's hemostatic when they do: no bleeding. If we put you in slow enough, they could eat you for days. Yeah?"

Roft, naked and helpless and toes dangling just centimeters above the water, stared upsidedown into Mack's eyes and said what the Dead Red underboss had hoped the Xion would.

"You always were a yellow-bellied son of a bitch, you know."

Giving a frown that couldn't quite shake its grin at the edges, Mack shrugged.

"Sure. But first we're going to see the yellow of your fat ol' belly spill out on the water and get e't up, won't we?"

The two men got the hint and started to lower the Xion into the water, but behind him, Mack heard a mechanical whirring and as he turned, he saw Samus Aran now in motion. The cannon swung up from the bounty hunter's waist until it was angled at Roft's head, then a light blue burst of light leapt from the end of the right arm and into Roft.

Vance and the other man sprang aside and the body began to slide into water. But more shots followed it as it did. Roft's corpse — whether it was already or would be soon was academic — hit the surface with a splash, then the water turned to froth as the toothy appetites enjoyed their meal.

"And that's the way it goes if you don't play along," Mack said, suppressing his surprise to pretend it had been planned. He kept his back to the captured Xions. It left him staring into Samus's visor. He finally turned back around. "No torture, no bluster, no trace left over. Just the end of you and then the end of anyone who'd miss you. Play along, or watch the game pass you by, and die."

There was fear in their faces now, and Mack reveled in it until he saw they kept glancing from him to Samus. He looked back at Samus again and felt something cold and hard staring back at him from within the visor.

* * *

**IniBron Consolidated Platform  
1340 GFST  
22-01-09 GFSD**

The blonde girl paced in her ship, armor standing in the corner, external hatch closed. She hadn't left the platform yet, but she would soon, and then that was the end, the end of everything.

This wasn't the way she wanted things to be. This wasn't the way she wanted to leave the Dead Reds or put in notice to Mack.

But she had to, hadn't she? She couldn't pretend she wasn't involved in what she was involved in any more, could she?

No. This had to be the end of it. Torturing Roft for days for no reason — she had to draw a line somewhere before she went any further with them. If she didn't, before she knew it, she'd be one of them, no different but for a shiny suit.

_"I'm through," Samus said, driving the luxury roller away from the meeting. The only passenger was the Dead Reds' unanimous choice for new boss._

_"I understand," was all Mack replied. _

_"I cannot do what you do," Samus continued. "I know you say it will be worth it later. You say your empire will be less bloody, more professional, more… humane. But it is not now. I cannot be a part of it now. Maybe later when you're done. But not now. It is too awful."_

_"I understand," was all Mack said._

So why did she have to kill the Xion underboss in front of everyone, undermine Mack? Why did she go ahead and threaten Mack for something he might not — probably would not — ever do? Stupid, stupid. And after all he'd done to give her jobs and help her reputation as a bounty hunter…

_"I caught them, the ones you wanted, as you wanted. They're yours now to do as you want. The Dead Red syndicate: it's yours now. You won."_

_"Yes."_

_Samus was almost perfectly still, but fidgeted slightly._

_"And yet, you're really going to kill those families, aren't you?"_

_"Only if I have to," Mack said._

_"Even the children?"_

_"Only if I have to," Mack repeated._

_Samus was quiet until the roller got to a traffic signal where it needed to stop. Then the bounty hunter turned around from the driver's seat._

_"I am going to go away, but if you hurt any of the young, I will find out," Samus wasn't fidgeting now. "Then you will not be the only one doing what has to be done."_

_Samus turned to navigating again and then neither said anything more for the remainder of the trip._

Immediately after, Samus had thought she'd gone too far. And yet now a small, quiet voice deep inside her said, "He is a thug, and he always was a thug, and you debased yourself by working for him all of this time. For too long you have prolonged the pursuit of your true calling."

So she paced, trying to figure out if what she'd done was right and inevitable, or ill-timed and rude. It was impossible. Half the time, one part of her brain said this was all for her progression in the universe and moving forward, but in the other half, the seething dubious whisper said that she'd behaved with idealistic naiveté in making her stand, and in leaving the Dead Reds, she was leaving her path for advancement altogether. Ahead lay only struggle, famishment, and shame; ahead lay only what she'd _only just_ put behind her and only due to the syndicate's patronage. Like most every other bounty hunter, she could only hope to languish in mediocrity some years then sell her ship and retire to something more sensible and stable.

But, the young Human female was _not _every other bounty hunter. Samus Aran was orphan become child of the stars, had experience incomparable to all others, and she knew she was alone in the galaxy and in some way exceptional for it, so she ultimately allowed herself to divorce from the destiny of common multitude. Now was the time to go and be a bounty hunter truly, a name truly, a legend truly, and whatever help she'd received from the Dead Reds was only instructive, not necessary.

The next day, she disembarked from the secure marketing platform sure she'd find for herself something worthwhile, something just and true.

* * *

**Relative Space  
0900 GFST  
23-01-09**

The previously downloaded OBG holovid paused on a frame of the early days of the Original Bittenfield Guild assisting Federation forces in the invasion of Norembuu as notification of an incoming signal popped up on the viewscreen, and Samus stopped eating her noodles, mid-slurp.

Hmm.

It was a new message, subject lined "SPECIAL OFFER," which meant she'd have to dip back into real space to actually receive the contents of what was a surprisingly large file. She debated whether she actually wanted to deal with anyone at the moment, ultimately settling on optimism that word of her departure from the Reds had already spread, and her reputation had gained her a new contract, rather than an unsolicited ad. (With her reduced income, Samus had been debating no longer paying for the premium Independent Channel message filter, but continued to feel the removal of aggravation from her life was worth the bi-weekly fee for the time being.)

She could easily wait to answer the message until she arrived at her destination in the Middle Systems, but if it _were_ a job offer, it likely would have come from her heretofore stomping grounds, so she'd have to turn around and come back anyway. Even if not, better to deal with it than procrastinate to carry empty hope with her longer than she needed.

Samus began the deceleration process out of relativistic subspace, something that would take a few minutes as fast as she had been going. The message contents hadn't come in yet but she was able to see that it contained more than just text, explaining why the file size was had been as large as it was. The particles containing the data increased in mass approaching infinity, so an audio-visual message deformed enormously more than a few bits of text. This one seemed to have some other sort of pattern in it as well. It could be a random error, some sort of noise fluctuating to temporarily look like a signal, but it could be something more, something clandestine. There was no way to know until the undilated message arrived, but she'd want to know what it was as soon as it did.

Samus sat aside her noodles and went over to her powered suit. Her internal processing unit would no doubt enjoy trying to de-code something, even if it turned out to be a wild skree chase. She heard the last bit of her suit seal, just as the ship finally fully exited relative space. She activated her IPU.

"Receive message," she instructed the ship. She attempted to tell her IPU to begin work on the underlying pattern of the message but it was ignoring her, instead scanning the exterior of the ship for a foreign substance it detected on its own.

On the main viewscreen, the image came through first, of a Xion mouthing a word. The audio followed a moment later.

"Boom."

* * *

There was a flash of light, brilliant and all-encompassing. There was a roar of sound, awful and deafening.

And after the roar, silence. After the flash, darkness.

Samus's eyes jerked from one place to the next behind her visor, searching for a point of reference beyond it, but there was none. Where her ship had surrounded her just moments before, now there was nothing. Pieces must still be around her somewhere, but there was no light to see them. There was just nothing. Forever.

She shut her eyes and preferred the darkness of her own making.

Her suit had protected her, but it had taken too much power to shield her. She couldn't move, and nothing responded to her prompts. Only life support was working now, and it couldn't last forever. When that was gone, her suit's last act before shutting down completely would be to open and release her.

Boil. Freeze. Suffocate. Pressurize and explode.

Images of the various possible deaths that awaited her projected themselves on the back of Samus's eyelids. She willed them away. Her training had covered situations just like this. She had to take control of the situation by processing the information available to her and making the right decision.

Right.

She tried to think of where she was going, how far she was from it, how long she'd been traveling, how long it would take another ship to come by, to notice the debris, to rescue her. But she'd been in normal space; most traffic would use subspace and only theoretically pass by her. Even for those who were in normal space, a debris field was to be avoided. They might contact some authority, though. Someone would see it and investigate in due time. Her IPU could tell her the percentages and how long she could expect before someone came along. If it were on.

Samus sighed.

What could she do, what could she do? She could… wait. She could wait until some random spacefarer happened across her particular electron in the middle of one hundreds of thousands of interstellar trade lanes. Damn it.

She could… meditate. That would slow her breathing, calm her down, and maybe even pass the time quicker. She could think of what to do if she were rescued (_once_ she were rescued, she corrected). The Chozo had always told her that meditation was good for her, but she'd never really believed them and never been any good at it, anyway. She supposed it couldn't hurt, though. She certainly didn't have anything better to do.

Samus took a deep breath, exhaled, and calmed herself. She began to mentally recite a sutra on patience.

As she did, Samus realized this was in fact the perfect situation for meditation. It was dark, and it was quiet. Well, except for the sounds of her own breath. And her every fidget. And the blood pumping in her ears, and she could feel her pulse go from her heart to her fingertips and toes and ears and back again, and it was all so damned _loud_ and annoying, everywhere and it didn't stop, and she couldn't get away from it, and she'd scream but she couldn't because it used up too much oxygen, and she needed to use as little as possible until someone came to save her, but no one was going to come and save her, but she wasn't scared of that (she was terrified of that), but she didn't need to pretend for anyone because she was alone, all alone, and she'd have cried but she hadn't cried in years, not since that day when she was still a child and had cried and called for her mother, but her mother hadn't answered her, and she'd call for her mother now, but mommy was dead and—

"Mommy," Samus whispered anyway, and found herself back home, the one she'd hated and prayed to get away from until her prayers were answered. She was alone, hidden in the dark, cold and tired and hungry and scared, so scared. She was small and weak, and everything was so big and powerful. What could she do? Who could save her? Why wasn't there anyone to save her?

"Mommy," Samus said again, and then she did cry.

* * *

**Darcia Platform of the Middle-Esper System  
****The Eastwood Disc Company (Dead Red Front)  
****0350 GFST  
****16-02-09 GFSD**

_In his dream, Mack sees Samus standing beside him, dressed in his armored suit as usual but smaller than real life proportion, about navel high. Mack smiles at the bounty hunter, his hand somehow tousling the bald red helmet's mop of hair. He points behind Samus at the field of corpses bloating in the sun, and Samus's black visor smiles back before turning to admire their shared handiwork. That's when Mack pulls the knife and draws it across Samus's throat, sending metal spurting red._

_Samus falls — maudlin, tragic — onto his face, and Mack lets him lie there briefly before turning him over. There's a bomb strapped to Samus now, and it shrieks with the urgency of an alarm. Somehow still alive, Samus's visor mouths a soundless word._

Mack woke up on the couch of his now expanded office as his brain finally recognized the incoming message notification that had intruded on his sleep's subconscious.

The particulars of the beeping let him know he was receiving a message from Noni Graff, a Human underboss centered on a nearby platform and a valuable ally. But Mack had been keeping a close eye on him to see if Graff ever started to think himself too valuable an ally to be taking orders from anyone.

Outside the office's doors, Dorrian and Vance held vigil. Mack wasn't getting much rest these days, and his guards were getting less. They got reprieved sometimes, but building up your retinue didn't help you if you couldn't trust most of them. So the inner circle stayed small, and somewhat overworked.

Mack walked over to his desk, zipping his pants the rest of the way up before he sat down. He fit the receiving monocle onto his left eye and ear, seeing now that it was a one-way message anticipating no response. That was a bit presumptuous of Graff.

Mack played the message anyway.

"Hello," he saw Samus Aran say, all but filling the image in the recorder. Behind the giant powered exoskeleton sat Noni Graff in his bedroom, looking slightly nervous but otherwise unmolested.

Mack kept his face taut.

"Due to an uncomfortable disagreement between myself and Mack Messer," Samus's artificial voice continued, "I've come to realize he is no longer the best choice to lead the Dead Reds as boss. Speaking with Noni Graff has convinced me Graff is much more qualified. I will be serving as his personal bounty hunter and protector until further notice. Thank you, and carry on as we make this transition as painless as possible."

Samus' hand reached toward the camera. When it reached back, there was a change. Graff was now wrapped in electrobinds, gagged.

"I have sent that to the Human underbosses I could get in contact with," Samus said again. "I will soon be turning Mr. Graff," he gestured, "over to the CESURC stationary platform for his well-deserved bounty. It will be a day or some days before the Humans find this out and can decide what to do. Do as you please."

The hand again reached toward the camera and again, the background shifted for Graff was no longer anywhere in sight.

"I sent the previous two messages to the Xions still in power. So for you, I attach with this information on all Dead Red legitimate-front facilities and financials for you also to do as you please. All other local-area syndicates have received the same information, so it would do you well to act quickly on it."

Samus reached for the camera. The arm came back.

"And the last thing I did, before sending this message to you, Mack Messer, was send all of it to the Galactic Federation, along with Graff's confession about the Pink Flamingo's tax audit. I fear the auditor did a passable job, but his heart just wasn't in it. I fear Graff also said you are the Boss of the Dead Reds, and that, I suppose, is still nominally true at present.

"You and the Xigs deserve one another. And everything the Obelisks and Princes are going to do with you. And everything the Feds will do when they get ahold of what's left. But you aren't worth my time. And if we're both lucky, I'll never have cause to see or hear of you again.

"I also sent this same message to Dorrian and Vance outside," Samus said. "And if they decide not to sell you to the highest bidder, they might even be able to help you get away."

Mack heard the doorknob start to turn. His eyes searched for the particle gun somewhere on his desk nearby. In his ear, Samus was still speaking.

"Boom."

* * *

**~See You Next Mission~**

* * *

The Phoenix's feathers are said to be more beautiful and valuable than the wealth of every kingdom. But woe to he who forgets the down brings fire.

**Next brief:** The Crimson Elpsis


	14. Brief: The Crimson Elpsis

_Brief: The Crimson Elpsis_

* * *

**Interstellar Space  
Salvage cruiser **_**The Crimson Elpis**_**  
2153 GFST  
30-01-09**

"I just — look, I don't want to go into it," Panu K'ni said, shifting the cooling pack resting on the massive thews of his wooly neck without obvious effect. The rest of the crew around the table and lounging at the room's edges, six in all, just laughed.

"No no, no no," Captain Krassa said, himself laughing almost to the point of tears. His tongue worked its way back up behind his teeth. "_You're_ the one who brought it up. You can't just decide you're not going to finish now. That's an order," he added, before breaking up again.

Furrowing his brow, the Fauni crewman opened his mouth once before actually speaking.

"It wasn't even a big deal anything," Panu said. "She just made me lie on my back, is all."

"Don't act like that's the end of it, now," crewman Musey said. "You heard the Shipmaster. I've already listened to how this story ends, and you _know_ that isn't it."

Panu blushed and shifted the cooling pack again.

"Aren't we supposed to be at the site already? Maybe we should ask Boht what our ETA is, and I'll tell you after."

"Let the helmsman worry about the navigation," Krassa said. "_You _worry about finishing your story."

Serendipitously for Panu, Helmsman Boht had indeed just finished with navigation, and the alert light came on in the messdeck. They each finished or otherwise packed away their foodstuffs and went to operational positions. When the salvage action was over, maybe he'd be lucky enough for them to forget altogether.

As the Fauni crewman settled into his own observation-action chair, he saw the wreckage up ahead they'd come to investigate. It didn't look like much, but one never knew what one would find in one of these until one looked. The strangest things could be lurking just behind another lump of scrap. The strangest, most _valuable_ things. A brief emergency subspace message beacon had reached their fiefdom's security, but it hadn't specified the emergency, the ship, the anything. Just the words, 'RESCUE ME' and the beacon's coordinates in relativistic nigh-gibberish. So here they were.

"Look, do you see that?" Boht said, specifically to Krassa but for all to hear. A location in the debris field blipped on their common map.

"What?" Krassa asked, far from the only one on the ship still straining eyes and readouts to spot what the helmsman had found.

"There's a powered exoskeleton right there, clumping with those pieces of hull," Boht said. "And I'm telling you, it looks _pristine_."

One never knew what one would find when searching a wreckage site. And as long as there were no other witnesses, one could never say what really belonged to whom, either.

* * *

Twenty minutes later with patience and great care, Panu used the pincers on his salvage mecha to place the armored exoskeleton against the loading bay floor while Hio, the Draos apprentice, chained it down at the neck and waist so it wouldn't float away and smack the ground or ceiling as they transferred it into the area of centrifugal gravity. Hio was just in a skintight astro suit, but both of them were insulated from the nigh-vacuum as they moved on a textured conveyer belt from the closed bay to the inhabited ship proper.

Musey had just reported nothing else of particular value had been located, so he was coming back in, too; in contrast to depressurization, fuel shortages or air-recycling failures that might befall a vessel, large explosions meant Fisks and other niceties rarely survived. And yet luckily, this prize still had. Even rare occasions had to occur occasionally.

"Is it a robot, maybe?" Hio asked Panu as the passed into the point of artificial gravity. This business was all very exciting to him still, Panu reminded himself. Krassa and the other four of the astro-suited crew members in the receiving bay gathered around their find, with a fair amount of excitement themselves. This was something of a treat.

"It could be lots of things. I know one way to find out, though. Captain, may I?" Panu asked as he indicated on his own viewscreen where he intended to cut with the torch.

"No, stay away from the abdomen," Krassa answered. "There's a chance there's a body still in there, and I don't want to have to deal with the stink if you go too deep. Try the neck."

Panu acknowledged then flipped his blast visor down and took the Higgs torch to the suit.

As the particle flame touched the metal, there was a burning smell then the torch's nozzle flared brightly and winked out. An electronic shriek emanated from the mysterious suit and it jerked up. The seven crewmembers jumped back as they heard what sounded like a gasp, and the suit rolled onto its side, writhing with agony tempered by relief.

"It's still alive," Panu observed stupidly. "What did we find?"

"I don't care. Kill it before it wakes up and tries to kill us," Krassa spat.

Panu dutifully swung the powered salvager into position to bash the exoskeleton's head apart by the brute force of the heavy mechanized clamp, but the exoskeleton turned onto its back in time to block the force of the strike with its cannon. The arm with a fully-articulated hand joined the cannon in trying to keep the pincer from crushing the rest of the suit, but it remained largely chained down as it lost the contest of artificial strength.

"The rifle," Krassa said to everyone but no one in particular, pointing at the far wall. "Grab the rifle."

Hio, nearest to it and swiftest with youth, ran to fetch the emergency pulse weapon, but something hit him in the back and make him stumble to the ground. When the newest crewman picked himself up and looked back around, everyone else had ducked behind various crates throughout the room.

"Hio!" Krassa said. "Hey, are you all right?"

"Yeah," he said, shaking his head. "What happened?"

"That thing shot at you with its cannon. Are you sure you're all right?"

"Everything tingles like my foot's asleep, but I'll be all right."

"Then shut up and finish getting that fucking gun."

Meanwhile Panu raised the gigantic clamp to bring down on the mysterious powered suit again, but it tugged on the two chains with each arm and broke them in time to roll then scurry out of the way. The clamp landed a moment too late and almost as soon as it did, a pulse rifle charge whooshed by Panu but missed him as well the intended target.

"Hey!" Panu shouted at Hio, who only shrugged.

Then the exoskeleton lunged against Panu's suit body, ripping open the cover to the power pack on the salvager's back. Though he couldn't see it, the cannon pressed itself into the pack and then Panu felt the salvager grow suddenly heavy, as if it had just had all of the blood sucked out of it. Now it stopped moving completely, and the heads up display winked out just before the shield visor closed over his view in the mech's rest position.

"Captain, something bad has happened," Panu started, hoping the communications subsystem still had power. If so, no one was responding. But then his shield visor tore away from his face and he found himself staring at the reflective black glass of the now repowered exoskeleton.

"You have no idea," a voice hissed from inside it.

* * *

"If you're going to steal my ship, that makes _you_ the pirate," Krassa said about an hour later.

"And if I shove you out into the bay with torn astro suits, what _then_ does that make me?" the fellow calling himself a bounty hunter asked, undeterred as he continued to type commands into the secondary navigation system control of the receiving bay. Helsman Boht was somehow a prisoner of the cockpit; this "Samus Aran" had locked him out of the primary navigation controls.

"A murderer and a bastard," Krassa answered.

"Funny. I do not believe the Federation criminal code has a section devoted to either one. In fact, let me check: no, it doesn't," Samus said. After immobilizing them all, first in electrobinds, then in whatever cord-like materials were available nearby, the bounty hunter hadn't bothered to look at any of them. "When I near the next fief, I'll report your location through the proper channels."

Realizing their situation, no one bothered to say anything until Hio spoke up. "But what if no one comes in time?"

Samus waited a long time to say anything, and seemed to be reveling in it. "Oh, someone will be sure to check on your emergency vessel and its distress vessel. But as to what they decide to do with you — and with your collection of Fisks and property — once they find you I can make no guarantee. I have no doubt that as fellow official fief first responders, their first and only concern on finding an wayward escape pod will be to save as many lives as possible. I have no doubt."

Even Hio knew there was nothing more to say at that point.

Hours later, when all the crew, including Helsman Boht, had been packed into the escape pod and jettisoned from The Crimson Elpis, Samus Aran had said nothing at all to them except a final oath he'd do no more or less than advise the proper authorities there was a ship in distress at such-and-such coordinates. And that he'd hope no _pirates_ got there before the good and honest salvagers did. Then they were sent out, bounded by nothing on every side for farther than their collective minds could imagine.

Sitting on the floor in the life-prolonging cold darkness, hands still bundled behind them, Captain Krassa cleared his throat.

"So, she made you lie on your back," Krassa said in Panu's general direction. "Then what happened?"

* * *

**~See You Next Mission~**

* * *

If you're a crusader against evil, you ought to snuff it ought wherever you see it. If you're a force of light, you ought to dispel all darkness, no matter how dim. Right?

Right?

**Next episode**: Descent to Darkness


	15. The Big Appendix v4a

_See You Next Mission: The Big Appendix__  
__**Version 4a: Updated 6/25/13:**__Stylistic changes and minor updates to the places and characters section to account for episode 10 and subsequent brief._

**Table of Contents:**

I. Common Terms  
II. Characters  
III. Specific Entities  
IV. Settings and Locations  
V. Miscellaneous and Etcetera  
VI. Total Population and Distribution of the Galactic Federation  
VII. History of the Galactic Federation  
VIII. Organization of the Galactic Federation Governments  
IX. Money and Economics in the Galactic Federation  
X. The Justice System: the Business of Crime and Punishment  
XI. Bounty Hunting  
XII. Guilds and Hunting Organizations  
XIII. Space Piracy  
XIV. How Samus Works  
...A. Weapons  
...B. Defense

**I. Common Terms**

_...Galactic Federation_ – the federal government and highest law of the land with absolute authority over the fiefdoms which comprise it. The overall setting for _See You Next Mission_._  
__...Fiefdom_ – autonomous, self-governing body granted rights and privileges by the Federation in return for a quarterly, per capita tax on all residents._  
__...Neo-feudalism_ – type of government which organizes the Federation, alternatively called laissez-faire authoritarianism. In theory the central (federal) government has complete authority over every aspect of government and society, but in practice very little interaction and interference occurs._  
__...Secure fiefdom/platform_ – one which scans and monitors all incoming and outgoing citizens. Reputable platforms and settled colonies. The majority of fiefdoms fall into this category._  
__...Liberty platform_ – one which does not scan or monitor incoming and outgoing citizens. Have developed as seedy, pseudo-prisons by choice. Rural colonies also serve the same function by default._  
__...Platform_ – artificially created fiefdom. There are four types. _Orbital_, _solar_, _stationary_, and _compound_. The former three are entirely artificial and a distinguished only by where they are. Orbital platforms orbit a planet or large moon, solar platforms revolve around a system's sun, and stationary platforms exist in the vast expanses of interstellar space. Compound platforms are built onto asteroids or small moons and are distinguished from terrestrial colonies by the need for artificial gravity regulation._  
__...Yire_ – digital, non-decimal currency of the Federation. Value varies place to place according to economy, but as a rule of thumb U.S. Dollars x 100 = Yire value._  
__...Fisk_ – physical container of the Yire._  
__...Bounty hunting_ – one of the few areas where the Galactic Federation exerts control over its fiefdoms. Bounty hunters cannot be barred access to a fiefdom if they are on contract ("Federal rights")._  
__...Contract_– legal, highly technical document which sets parameters of a bounty hunter's job. Contractor is held legally responsible for crimes committed by bounty hunter within parameters of contract, the bounty hunter (or guild) is held responsible for those outside._  
__...Guild_ – a group of bounty hunters organized to provide a certain level of quality for a certain price._  
__...Galactic Federation Standard Time_(GFST) – a twenty-four hour cycle based on the Human circadian rhythm. Day begins at 0000, ends at 2359._  
__...Galactic Federation Standard Date_ (GFSD) – a 375 day calendar divided into 15 months of 25 days. Day-Month-Year. At the beginning of SYNM, it is the twenty-first day of the ninth month of the four hundred and seventh year of the Galactic Federation and its standardized system.

**II. Characters****  
**_Samus Aran_ – the overall protagonist. A bounty hunter.  
...(Appears in episodes 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 9.5).  
_The Negotiator_" – the direct representative of the Dorl-Haitian Corporation in its dealings with the bounty hunter Samus Aran over the bounty Wade Andrews. Exact position in the corporation is unknown.  
...(1, 2).  
_Wade Andrews_ – the first bounty. Wanted for stealing information from the Dorl-Haitian Corporation (D-HC).  
...(mentioned in 1 , appears in 2).  
_Woody Malone_ – a bartender at the Soaring Weasel. Serves Samus a much-needed drink. Also an oh-so-clever reference to a popular show about a bar.  
...(2).  
_Tom Mueller_ – A broken man obsessed with murdering his "thief" of a brother.  
...(3).  
_Cecil Mueller_ – Tom's brother and bounty target.  
...(3).  
_Derrick Cherrington_ – A wealthy man who needs to placate his daughter.  
...(4, 8).  
_Cassie Cherrington_ – His daughter. Has an affinity for cats.  
...(4, 8).  
_The Old Timer"_ – Old enough to have babysat God and doesn't appreciate the changes to his fine city of Dedlam.  
...(4).  
_The Busboy"_ – overworked and underpaid employee of an overpriced and understaffed restaurant. Enjoys watching the rich get their comeuppance.  
...(4).  
_Katrina_ _Wright_ – Book-loving glasses girl. Would love to sell her books, except nobody's buying.  
...(4).  
_Rancore_ _Dret_ – Another bounty target. Doesn't believe anything is his fault.  
...(5, 6).  
_Xr. Roft, the Younger_ – Dret's contact from the Dead Reds. Xion.  
...(5).  
_Nyson_ – Personal bodyguard to the Roft family, first the younger Roft, then the elder. Xion.  
...(5, 6, 9.5).  
_Revlen_ _Yomo_ – Longtime bounty hunter for the Dead Reds. Has several bad habits. Species unspecified.  
...(6, 7; mentioned in 9).  
_Mack_ Messer– a Dead Red underboss. Human. Contracts Samus to work alongside Revlen, and later adopts Samus as personal guard, assistant. Involved in power struggle for Dead Red gang.  
...(6, 7, 8, 9, 10).  
_Xr. Roft, the Elder_ – a Dead Red underboss. The Younger Roft's father and the person responsible for placing the open bounty on Rancore Dret.  
...(6, 9.5, 10).  
_Pero_ – a former acquaintance of Revlen Yomo, now runs a club for the Dead Reds called "The Masque".  
...(7).  
_Jameson_– a mechanic who lives and owns a shop on the outskirts of Oakum City. Agrees to try to open a locked powered exoskeleton for Revlen Yomo. Is the last of six brothers. As an independent businessman, he is a relic in a city owned and controlled by the Dead Reds.  
...(7).  
_Tiffany Lowell_ – A young girl who loses her parents to Dead Red debt collection. Adopted by Cherrington family.  
...(8).  
_Graham Lowell_ – Accountant who is roped into a federal tax evasion scheme and later abducted. Hinted that his body is taken apart to be sold for value of individual parts and organs.  
...(8).  
_Marsia Lowell_ – Tiffany Lowell's mother. Hides daughter to enable her escape. Fate unknown.  
...(8).  
_João Lopes_ – Inveterate gambler, drunk of MegaBucks City. Preternaturally lucky, as well as unlucky. Possibly precognizant. Beaten into a coma by muggers, later killed in explosion when delivered to Dead Red Xions.  
...(8.5, 9)  
_Fenner Hasan_ – Bartender at the Orange Moon.  
...(8.5, 9).  
_Boss Roth_ – Aged, dying boss of the Dead Red syndicate. His failing health helps trigger the Messer-led coup.  
...(10).  
_Vance and Dorrian – _Two Human heavies working directly for Mack as bodyguards.  
...(10).  
_Noni Graff_ _– _Human underboss responsible for a considerable faction of his own.  
...(10, Metroid: Smut).

**III. Specific Entities**

_The Dorl-Haitian Corporation_ – large, multi-fiefdom corporation. Contracts Samus for the purposes of "recovering information stolen by an employee".  
...(1, 2).  
_Universal United Systec-Zaibac Corporation_– sends Samus an offer so good, she would have to be crazy to ignore it.  
...(1).  
_The Concerned Citizens for Galactic Stability (CCGS)_– an elite bounty hunting guild.  
_Integrated Media Network_– the only semi-reliable source of news about the Galactic Federation as a whole. Often takes a story more than a month to be gathered and reported.  
_Yemen Insta-Noodles_– a low budget option for food. Not very tasty, not very nutritious, but very, very cheap.  
_Dead Reds_– a powerful organized crime syndicate operating in a section of the Outer Rim.  
...(5, 6, 7, 8, 8.5, 9, 9.5, 10)  
_Obelisk Syndicate_ – another criminal organization operating in a section of the Outer Rim. Size unknown.

**IV. Settings and Locations**

_Grestch_ _platform_– first locale visited in SYNM. A secure fiefdom. Home to Wade Andrews and, at least in part, home to the Dorl-Haitian Corporation. Part of the Inner Lespe-IV Star System.  
...(1).  
_The Fortuna Café_– a restaurant on Grestch platform. Originally the meeting place between Samus and "the Negotiator".  
...(Mentioned in 1).  
_Gantil Platform_ – Wade Andrews' first destination, a secure fiefdom that trades with both Grestch and Dimun platforms.  
...(Mentioned in 1, 2).  
_Dimun Platform_ – Where Samus eventually tracks Wade Andrews. A liberty platform. Part of the Extra-Almoth Star System.  
...(2).  
_The Soaring Weasel_ – a bar on Dimun platform. Last seen in a state of disrepair.  
...(2).  
_Carnicero Platform_ – liberty platform known as haven for especially violent criminals and fugitives.  
...(Mentioned in 2).  
_Planet Theresus_ – A medium-sized planet suitable for Human settlement. One of the first colonies of the Outer Rim, many of those early businessmen who became rich mining the Outer Rim planets settled here, typically on the Eastern Hemisphere, but that has since begun to become overcrowded.  
...(4, 8).  
_Dedlam_ _City_ – a growing trade city. Once a small town populated solely by rugged pioneers, has recently seen an influx of citizens from the planet's Eastern Hemisphere.  
...(4).  
_Glorious Platform_ – a liberty platform designed like a multi-story car park, confusing to navigate if not a native. Where Rancore Dret tries to get a night's sleep. Part of the Extra-Wallach System.  
...(5).  
_Ruddell_ _Platform_– a typical (liberty) orbital platform, serves Planet Coka Monika. Takes raw materials from planet and assembles them into final products to be shipped elsewhere, receives other final products to be sold on the planet. The last hurdle between Dret and freedom.  
...(5)._Planet Coka Monika_ – a thinly populated rural platform in the Outer Rim.  
...(Mentioned in 5).  
_Darcia_ _Platform_– a liberty platform owned and operated by an aristocracy, with a criminal underworld heavily controlled by the Dead Reds. Occasionally the two groups come into conflict.  
...(6).  
_Eastwood Disc Company – __a Dead Red front, and Mack's base of operations as underboss.  
...(6, 10). __  
Planet Jagara_– planet in the same system as Darcia, but not heavily settled. Fiefdom government very laissez-faire in its approach, thus many criminal organizations, including the Dead Reds, are free to prosper.  
...(7).  
_Oakum City_ – medium-sized city on Planet Jagara (about 50,000 people). Except for one run-down mechanic's shop, it's entirely owned and controlled by the Dead Reds.  
...(7).  
_The Masque_ – a popular club in Oakum City owned by the Dead Reds. Layout influenced by a famous short story (Poe, anyone?).  
...(7).  
_Astra Platform_ – A city platform in the Gehern-Snow system. Populated by well-to-do citizens who yearn a life they can never achieve. Sterile, mass-produced, and boring, but easy to look at. There's literally thousands of domed cities just like it across the Federation.  
...(8).  
_Lex'tl-3_– Origin of Taffir race. Mention in passing with no other purpose than making a joke in episode 8.  
_Planet Madison_ – Dead Red homeworld. Originally a mining colony, intentionally kept inaccessible except by space elevator.  
...(10).  
_IniBron Consolidated Platform – __a Human Dead Red-stronghold. Site of a stupendous interstellar aquatic hatchery.  
...(10).  
__The Crimson Elpsis__ – a scavenging ship. The crew functions as something between opportunistic junkers and privateers. In some areas, could be called "space pirates."  
...(10.5)._

**V. Miscellaneous and Etcetera**

_...IPU_ – Samus' Internal Processing Unit. Primary function is to provide Samus with data, usually by filtering out all extraneous information. Also used to assist Samus in combat situations to improve accuracy and track threats. Properly pronounced "DEH-us ex MAH-kin-ah".  
_...Electrobinds_ – standard apprehension equipment. Analogous to handcuffs, but niftier._  
__...Voxcoder_ – a device which masks the tone and pitch of a voice, typically for those in powered suits who don't wish to have their identity revealed or tracked. Some models translate, as well as mask the voice._  
__...Shallah_ _and Shalgot_ – "fuck/shit/mother fucker" and "bastard/son of a bitch/cocksucker", respectively. Chozo cursing._  
__...Powered exoskeleton/exo/armor/suit_ – artificial, self-powered exoskeletons designed to protect and/or augment the natural physical abilities of the wearer. Come in many shapes and sizes from fully enveloping suits of armor to minimalist joints and rods connected to only a few portions of body.

**VI. Total Population and Distribution of the Galactic Federation**

The Federation is composed of thousands of planets and platforms. There is, however, a great population disparity from one to another, particularly among the terrestrial colonies. A few planets, mostly in the center of the Federation, are densely populated into the billions, while others on the Outer Rim may have no more than _one_ _hundred_ inhabitants. Most planets fall between these two extremes with the norm being fifty or seventy-five million planetary residents spread into cities of under fifty thousand people, avoiding the upward spiraling living expenses associated with earlier sprawling megacities. Platforms also range from a minimum of several thousand citizens at the far edge of minor trading routes to a maximum of ten or fifteen million along major trading routes. The norm for artificial platforms is between five and seven million. Unlike planets, it's more cost effective to pack as many people in to one area as possible because of the high fixed costs associated with environmental and gravitational regulation. But beyond fifteen million people, it becomes unsafe (and more importantly unprofitable) to maintain the number of plants required to keep the environment at the proper equilibrium.

The population is distributed across the Federation like the wheel of a sports car. The "hub" of the wheel is the Central Planets, and contains about one tenth of the area of the Federation, but forty percent of the population. The middle of the wheel, or Middle Systems, comprise sixty percent of Federation territory and about thirty percent of the population. The rest of the area and population belong to the Rim systems, which are mostly thinly populated trade ports, resource gathering outposts, and rural colonies. Connecting the rings are the spokes, or major trading routes, much more densely populated than the surrounding area. Being included in a "spoke" is almost guaranteed to provide prosperity, and the opposite is true of those fiefdoms bypassed by a new route.

In total, there are just over ten trillion registered citizens, though a sizable chunk of other unofficial residents also exist. These include those in the Outer Rim whose parents never registered them and immigrants from the Unclaimed Territories. Estimates of these two demographics range from two to fifteen billion, depending on the source.

It's important to note that the Galactic Federation is not actually "galactic" in the sense that the Federation considers the entire Milky Way part of its territory. About half of the Milky Way is under direct or indirect Federal control, emigrants inhabit another eighth or so, and the rest is Unclaimed Territory. While the Federation _does_ have an official count of all paying fiefdoms, there are an unknown number of other newly colonized planets which are too economically undeveloped to be taxed, but nonetheless trade with official Federation fiefdoms. The Federation no longer has a need to push for expansion as there are millions of undeveloped planets and a near limitless amount of space for platforms within its boundaries already.

**VII. History of the Galactic Federation**

The Galactic Federation has its origin in the Federation of Interstellar Human Habitats (FIHH), an organization formed by the Earth in an effort to rein in its increasingly independent and prosperous "colonies" and prevent itself from becoming altogether irrelevant. The Earth was to act as the head of an ever-growing sphere of Human influence and by proxy the ever-growing Human Empire, thereby securing its place of power in the galaxy for the next thousand years. This action was taken too late by the decaying Mother power, however, and the Extra-Earthian Human governments slowly shifted the focus of the FIHH away from the Earth and Earthian System. The death knell of the Earth's power was when the FIHH voted to allow non-Human members into its Senate, renaming the organization the "Galactic Federation" and completing the shift of its axis of power to the current Central Planets. The Earth retained the colonies it still directly administered in the Earthian System, which to this day exists as a minor trading league in the area between the Central Planets and Middle Systems.

While the Earth languished into obscurity and was forgotten by all except a few curious historians, the Galactic Federation grew and grew. Its military might was secondary to its economic power, and many new races were brought in by the simple temptation of the wealth the Federation could provide. Military conquests were also common, of course, but it quickly became apparent that the Federation could either govern its new territories or maintain a military to protect and keep them in line, but not both. The Galactic Federation spent the next century expanding its territory and scaling back its bureaucracy and social services to the bare minimum, slowly handing over authority to local governments.

**VIII. Organization of the Galactic Federation Governments**

The government that is known as the Galactic Federation runs according the principle of laissez-faire authoritarianism. This manifests itself, officially, as "Neo-feudalism". Because the Federal government wishes to minimize expenditures as much as possible, the duty of operating and maintaining terrestrial colonies and space platforms falls to the local governments themselves, the modern equivalent of ancient fiefdoms. The fiefdoms are self-sufficient in that they do not need Federal approval for any policies they pursue to sustain themselves, be it construction, trade treaties, air-producing plants, or almost anything else. Everything (from passing laws to keeping order and a working legal system to deciding what regulations exist) is determined at the local level. Laissez-faire authoritarianism means the Federation _allows_ almost anything within its borders, however it doesn't _guarantee_ freedom, an important point. An individual fiefdom can be a pure democracy, a dictatorship with a cult of personality, a constitutional monarchy, a totalitarian theocracy, a free market plutocracy, a centrally planned economy, or anything else—hypothetically that is. Due to the required quarterly per capita payments each fiefdom must make to the Galactic Federation, inefficient forms of government and economic systems have been largely forced out, often by the Federation itself.

The most important aspect of laissez-faire authoritarianism is that while the Federation rarely meddles in the affairs of its fiefdoms—or wishes to meddle, for that matter—it reserves the right to remove any freedoms or seize any property as necessary. If need be, the Federation will send its military to troublesome fiefdoms and restore order through force, occasionally installing its own local representative as head of state until the fiefdom can be sold to a private owner, corporation, or trading league. Platforms are especially vulnerable to Federal pressure because it is relatively easy to cut off trade or destroy the life support systems of artificial colonies. Of course terrestrial colonies are little better prepared to defend themselves against the full brunt of the Federation military.

The main reason for Federation intervention is an unwanted disruption of trade, and the Federation _will_ step in in the event that this occurs. Trade can be disrupted by rebellious fiefdoms, but more often it is because of space pirates and raiders, and unintentionally regressive policies maintained by the local governments. When this happens, the Federation will do whatever is necessary to restore trade.

While fiefdoms are left to rule themselves independently, there's nothing to stop them from forming trading leagues among themselves, which they do quite frequently. Most fiefdoms are corporately owned, thus mergers and buyouts between companies automatically form such leagues. More commonly a league is formed to compete against rivals. The purpose of most leagues is to encircle or cut off trade with another league through exclusive contracts and incentives.

This can be a double-edged sword because cutting off relations with a rival trading bloc means losing all potential business _from_ them as well. Therefore although the majority of fiefdoms are part of leagues, the most prosperous fiefdoms are independent with a motto of "commerce with all, alliance with none". It may also be that because the fiefdom is prosperous enough to be on its own, it cannot be pressured into a trading league as a less successful fiefdom might be.

**IX. Money and Economics of the Galactic Federation**

The currency of the Federation is the Yire. As the Yire is the lowest and only denomination of money; there is no decimal currency. Yire is purely digital in existence and never exists in forms with which we are familiar (dollar bills or coins) because of the increasingly sophisticated techniques to reproduce ersatz physical products. The closest comparison to 21st Century money is when the Yire manifests itself in the physical world, as held on a Fisk.

Fisks are not representative of the money itself, they are merely vessels for the money in the same way a debit card is not a representative of money, but a medium on which the money is stored and travels. Of itself, a Fisk is a worthless scrap of Lucite trash which might end up as discarded litter. Its individual worth is _entirely_ determined by the number of Yire to which it lays claim, existing in a physical and metaphysical form simultaneously in the Fisk card.

The digital Yire can be transferred directly from one Fisk to another via the Fisks' interface ports. Free transfers between any two Fisks are therefore entirely possible by merely linking them together and initiating a transfer, shifting the Yire around between two cards. Fisks can only send and receive, not take, Yire. This is intended to prevent unwilling transactions, but in practical use it's easy enough to physically take another person's Fisk and make it the sender, rendering this safety feature virtually pointless.

Another, more important, safety feature is still quite useful in everyday usage. The Federation has programmed an undisclosed number of cryptography keys into all transactions involving Fisks, like a secret handshake that must be performed before anything can happen. If a fake Fisk doesn't know the handshake, no genuine Fisk will talk to it. As only Federally produced Fisks with these crypto keys can talk to each other and lay claim to Yire, a cosmetically identical counterfeit Fisk can be quickly and easily discovered as a fake by merely attempting to initiate a transaction. To date, this cryptography has not been broken, nor is it thought possible under current and foreseeable technology. In spite of this, Federation cryptographists are constantly working to improve the security measures and stay as far ahead of the counterfeiters as possible.

Yire can also be transferred in their pure digital form via electronic funds to banks or repositories. This can be accomplished by visiting a branch of the Federal Bank or using one of its QuiCash transfer terminals found on almost all Federal planets and platforms. Network wireless cash systems are in place for merchants to accept bank-linked Fisks. Entire bank accounts can be held on a single stored Fisk.

This has implications for how the economy of the Federation works. The Feds can account for almost ninety-nine percent of all money in the system as the majority of transactions are not Fisk-to-Fisk but electronic transfers. This way the Federation can easily add or remove money from the open market pool by using taxes or rebates. For the most part, the Federation follows a hybrid Keynesian economic model, with several modifications to account for the economy the size of an interstellar magnitude. Unlike economies of antiquity which had to worry about downturns and trade deficits, the Federal economy is self-contained and so massive that it is simultaneously experiencing growth and deceleration, often in the same industry. This makes determining whether the money supply should be expanded or retracted a complicated issue, but one the top economic advisors of the Federation are up to the task of solving.

**X. The Justice System: the Business of Crime and Punishment**

To the Galactic Federation, ten trillion citizens means there are ten trillion potential criminals. Thus, the responsibilities of designating punishments for crimes and enforcing those punishments have been passed to the local governments. There are some seven hundred billion known criminals in the Federation, of which only five hundred billion are successfully apprehended or otherwise accounted for. These are taken care of under a monetary (rather than time-based) system, and vary from fiefdom to fiefdom. On such and such platform, rape may be a fine of fifteen million Yire; on such and such planet it may only be one hundred thousand Yire. If a person can pay the fine, his very literal debt to society is considered paid in full, and no other action is taken except that the offense is added to his personal profile. A second offense will usually be a great deal larger, some times exponentially. When a person cannot pay any or all of his fine, whatever debt to the fiefdom that remains is paid by a penal colony which buys the criminal through a bid, estimating the worth of the work it will be able to get out of the criminal until he is dead or his debt fully worked off. A twenty year old murderer may have a two hundred billion fine on him—for all intents and purposes a life sentence. Assuming no notable physical or mental defects, this means the penal colony can get at least sixty years of quality work out of him. Of course even a relatively cheap fine, thirty thousand Yire or so, can be stretched out into years of labor should the penal colony decide to dock an individual's pay or reduce the wage at which he is working, often just Yire a day.

When a fiefdom knows a criminal has escaped its jurisdiction, it may let him go so long as the crime was not particularly serious. The person is no longer its headache and voluntary expulsion is just as good as anything it might do. But in the case of serious crimes (murder, rape, assault, robbery, etc.) the Federation will often use its private security forces to try to stop the criminal before he can leave because to attract visitors, a fiefdom must be able to authentically advertise that criminal deeds that occur within the fiefdom's boundaries are punished. In addition, it is directly profitable to the fiefdom to capture criminals and sell them, as stated above. On most secure platforms and planets, the fiefdom will be able to stop the fugitive before he can leave, but if this is not the case, the fiefdom will calculate the expected purchase price of such a criminal and issue an open bounty, the reward for the fugitive's return not exceeding that expected price. A bounty hunter will then return the fugitive to the designated location and receive proper payment.

Most developed fiefdoms also employ some kind of law enforcement in their own territory for the day-to-day responsibilities of keeping order, however, some go even further, keeping a stable of private bounty hunters on hand. These are different from normal bounty hunters and guildsmen in that they are ordered by the fiefdom to take certain out-of-jurisdiction jobs for the fiefdom. These private hunters are _much_ more expensive to maintain than per-the-job bounty hunters meaning only the richest fiefdoms can utilize them, and none are rich enough to employ them in large numbers.

Dealing with criminals has become a profitable business. Bounty hunters get paid, the fiefdoms gain revenue and secure themselves, the penal colonies gain labor that is cheap and has absolutely no civil rights. Best of all the Federation doesn't have to pay a Yire for it.

The Federation does have its own system of justice and punishment, but this is reserved only for those guilty of Federal crimes (i.e. a disruption of trade or direct attack on Federation employees), most of these being raiders and Pirates. Pursuit of Federal bounties is handled by the Galactic Police, a force which resembles its former purpose in name only. Instead of policing, they hunt down Federal enemies and act as a Special Forces counter to the guerilla groups of space raiders, space hunters, and Space Pirates. For anyone caught in the act of theft or attempting to transport stolen items, the penalty is execution. In the more rare white-collar cases of financing raiding operations or attempting to cheat Federal taxes, Galactic Policemen retrieve the perpetrators to be sent to a Federal penal colony. The fine for "white-collar" Federal crimes is imprisonment for life, and forfeiture of all assets and property. The criminal spends the remainder of his life working in a Federal penal colony. Needless to say, there are few white-collar Federal criminals.

Galactic Policemen are considered to be the elite of the elite within the Federation, rivaled only by white level bounty hunters.

**XI. Bounty Hunting**

The proliferation of bounty hunters within the Galactic Federation is due to its very nature. The incredibly vast distances, number of available places to hide, and amount of resources that would have to be spent in order to finance a traditional police force dictated that another option would have to be pursued to keep any semblance of law.

Keeping with the emergent hands-off philosophy of the Galactic Federation, it was decided bounty hunters would be given a new legal status, one that would expand all previous rights and add many others so that they could handle the additional responsibilities being placed upon them. Ultimately this was a failure because even though bounty hunters had many rights (such as searching a home without a warrant and applying lethal force to bounties as necessary), the accountability of hunters when they made mistakes was poorly defined. When there was collateral damage the issue of who was legally responsible was brought into the courts again and again and settled in an inconsistent manner. It was obvious other steps would have to be taken.

That step was to apply a new kind of citizenship to registered bounty hunters, one that regarded them as non-legal entities when on assignment. Instead, any damage or fault in their work fell upon the contractor (when he could be located), as was the crime of murder (when it could be proven the bounty specifically called for such a thing). The difference between being "on assignment" and "just another citizen" is not as simple as merely having a bounty contract during the time of an illegal act. If a bounty hunter commits a crime directly related to pursuing a bounty, he is not legally considered responsible. A non-related crime, however, is punishable.

For example, should a bounty hunter be in a restaurant and walk out on his tab to chase a bounty he sees outside, he has done nothing illegal and is well within his rights. But should a bounty hunter get up and leave a restaurant without paying because he simply doesn't feel like it or has no money, he _is_ deserving of the suitable fine. The same would apply to other more serious crimes, as well.

The systems that track bounties are privately owned and operated, but monitored and informally sanctioned by the Federation. The largest such system is the Independent Channel which services the majority of independent hunters. It's highly unprofitable, due to a number of factors including less money per transaction, one-time dues, and general apathy by the channel operators. Thus it is only kept aloft through continuous Federation subsidies and aid. A few poorly maintained channels also exist for independents, but they receive no subsidies and have a much more precarious financial situation. A small but prominent group of channels are operated by guilds, both major and minor, and handle guild-offered bounties in the same general way as the Independent Channel but with a higher quality of service. Guild channels run a by-the-second updater on the condition of every active member. This contains all relevant facts in which a contractor might be interested researching such as a bounty hunter's call sign, record, starting price, and current mission status or personal details like biography, psych-profile, and previous employer references. Guilds also have a secondary listing for jobs contractors are offering to the guild as a whole that guild members can then bid on until their price floor is reached or a certain amount of time has gone by.

In exchange for a predetermined monetary fee, the hunter performs his contracted duties. This could include elimination, recovery, collection, negotiation—anything requested in the contract. However, requesting an illegal service is considered bad form (i.e. stupid) as this makes it relatively easy to prove that the contractor was responsible for the illegal action and therefore easy to hold said contractor responsible. Because of this, euphemistic language has become commonplace. Instead of "theft" a contractor asks the bounty hunter to "borrow" a specific item. Instead of an "assassination", the contractor issues a "dead or alive" bounty, emphasis on "dead". Such terminology makes it much more difficult to prove in court that the contractor intended there to be any serious offense, and almost impossible in cross-fief matters.

There are three kinds of bounties:

_...Open bounty_ – The most common. A bounty put on the head of a person or group of people, open to anyone who will accept it. Because there is no advance and all is paid upon delivery, these types of bounties are only taken by those in desperate need of money. The risk is that after spending a great deal of time, effort, and money tracking down a bounty, there will be absolutely no compensation for the hunter. Any registered hunter can pursue such a bounty as no prior qualifications are asked. By definition they are open to anyone, but in practice only an independent would ever accept one. The single advantage to a bounty hunter is that failure to capture an open bounty is not put on one's record.

_...Bid Bounty_ – The second most common. A bounty put on the head of a person or group of people, open to anyone who meets the criteria of the contractor and then asks for the lowest price. These are more common among the independents because competitive bidding can rapidly jawbone down the price. They also exist in guilds, the only difference being that there is a price floor set (varying according to the respectability of the guild) to guarantee bidding doesn't get out of hand. For all types of bid bounties, contractors can fill out a set of values for what they want such as the minimum bid that will automatically award the contract, length of time the bounty will be offered, minimum number of missions or success percentage a hunter must have in order to bid, and so on.

_...Request Bounty_ – The rarest type of bounty. Contractor requests a specific bounty hunter for a specific job and directly negotiates the terms. This almost always occurs with guildsmen because only guildsmen are worth targeting specifically. As a successful bounty hunter may have more than one offer in queue, this can be seen as the direct opposite of a bid bounty. In order to guarantee his services, contractors offer more and more money, pushing up the price a bounty hunter will receive. If successful, this helps set a precedent and thereafter the bounty hunter can expect at least that much per job. Request bounties are the key to why guilds are successful and why upper level guildsmen bounty hunters can become so rich.

The bounty hunter scale is color coded accordingly to provide quick visual classification of all bounty hunters listed, at least for the human eye. It's graduated beyond the eight listed here with eleven additional classifications for each color (i.e. from blue -5 to blue +5). The lighter the color the "more pure" the bounty hunter's record, the darker the less successful.

_...black_ - the absolute worst. Pure black is at least ten failed missions on career without success, but most don't reach this without retiring._  
__...purple_ - very bad. Many more failures than successes._  
__...blue_ - poor. A few more failures than successes._  
__...green_ - starting point. Reserved for unproven rookies. After three or four missions, will be moved into either blue or red range depending on success or lack thereof._  
__...red_ - competent. The upper echelon of independents and bottom of the barrel guildsmen._  
__...orange_ - good. Reliable, will get the job done, but limited in the types of jobs they can take._  
__...yellow_ - gifted. Just on the verge of greatness._  
__...white_ - elite. Top Yire bounty hunters and members of "major league" guilds.

At any given time there are approximately two billion bounty hunters, one hundred fifty million of those independent and fifty million guildsmen.

**XII. Guilds and Hunting Organizations**

The competition between bounty hunting groups is supposed to foster the quick, timely completion of contracts so as to keep the total crime rate down and ensure a good return on the contractors' investments. While this has indeed been the case, a problem has come up as the competition has begun to go too far. Guilds ceased to be just unions and became businesses in themselves.

Guilds are like unions in that they control the supply of workers, how they are distributed, and where. Though they only control a small fraction of the total supply bounty hunters, they control _all_ of the top bounty-getters, thus almost as much money flows through the guild channels as the Independent Channel. While the free market system would tend to increase the going rate of successful bounty hunters anyway, guilds set a minimum payment for their members, made possible solely by the reputation of the guild and quality of its members. If a potential contractor wishes to spend less than x amount, there are plenty of other, less qualified guilds and independents that could suit him (so the guild would argue). What determines a guild's quality is its reputation. Guilds are the sum of their parts and a poor record on the part of one their members (killed in action, failed missions, poor feedback) affects the minimum rate of the rest of the guild. Perfect mission records are therefore prized above all else and such bounty hunters are courted relentlessly. But as a result of guilds picking the cream of the independent crop, expected prices and overall talent of independents is held at a constant low.

A diamond-shaped hierarchy of guilds exists, similar in many ways to the system of professional baseball, including scouting, incentive-based signing, and trades. The lowest guilds are just above independents in quality and pricing, intended for those independent hunters considered on the bubble of becoming full guildsmen. These provisional guilds are a proving ground and membership in these is temporary. Either a hunter will prove himself competent and be called up by a higher guild or he will fail and be released back into the ranks of the independents. Consider this lowest level to be year-round spring tryouts. Although there's a lot of turnover, the numbers actually in it remain fairly constant and small.

Most guilds are the "professional" guilds, what you might call the minor leagues. These would be separated into the equivalent of Classes AAA through E. Just as you would expect, a Class AA guild calls for better pay for its members than a Class C or D guild, and a contractor can expect better service from a Class B guildsman than a Class E guildsman. This isn't how they are classified in _See You Next Mission_, understand, just the familiar equivalent. Once a bounty hunter reaches this top AAA level or achieves enough success to be considered worth the risk, a "major league" guild will ask him to join, which a bounty hunter always will for reasons of money and prestige. Those major league bounty hunters who have fallen into a slump or are in a decline are sent down to this level to finish out their career or improve to top form.

The major league guilds are the top of the diamond. They are incredibly rich, powerful, and well-regarded. In addition to taking annual membership fees and getting a percentage of every transaction that occurs on their channel, major league guilds also bring in revenue through clothing, hats, videos, pay channels, and virtual games. Most of this money is reinvested into advertising because the more competent a guild is thought, the more money that guild can ask for per job for its members. At each "professional" level, a guild must find an equilibrium between being too exclusionary and diluting its level of talent. This is especially pronounced for major league guilds because their reputations are the most prominent. If it accepts even one hunter who isn't top-notch, the guild can be set back years.

There's also good deal of territorial jockeying that goes on between the guilds, again on all levels. However, a Class C guild does not compete directly with a major league or Class A guild because it is intended for a different economic bracket. One Class C guild can inhabit the same territory as a higher or lower class guild without any problems. In this way, guilds are like street gangs, each selling a different kind of drug. A pot dealer is not a threat to a crack or heroin dealer on the same corner because for the most part they have different clientele. But should another gang's pot dealer move into the same area, customers will be divided and the first's profit will decrease. For this reason, the amount of territory a gang/guild controls is second of importance only to the reputation of its product/service. In order to force the new pot dealer out, the original pot dealer may enlist the help of the local heroin and crack dealers, in return for the promise that he will help them if other heroin or crack dealers move in. They will form an alliance and once this is done, it increases the similarity between the guild system and professional baseball.

While guilds at every level are technically independent, a lower class guild can be considered "in the system" of the major league guild with which it is allied. Once a bounty hunter has proven himself good enough to move up to the next level, he'll stay in the system, assuming he doesn't get "cut" or "traded". Cuts are rare as it's still profitable to use a struggling hunter in a lower Class, but trades are frequent.

In summation, consider them hybrids of a sports franchise and a street gang and a union. As a sports franchise, the guild must maintain its reputation and performance in order to attract "players" and customers. As a street gang, it wishes to expand its territory and keep a monopoly on what it already has in order to exclusively offer its service to potential customers. And lastly, as a union it is providing a service to contractors, and it is a guild's job to ensure that its members get as much money and as good of terms as possible.

**XIII. Space Pirates, Piracy, and Hunters**

There are three threats to the Galactic Federation currently, although only one type of threat: the disruption of trade.

Space Pirates and space raiders are basically the same thing. A small group of marauders overtake and disable a merchant ship, then board, take whatever cargo back to their own ship, and flee. The term "Space Pirates" refers to a specific race (or group of races, if you go by that theory) who are considered a organization of their own, while space raiding has no proper-noun connotation and refers to those guilty of non-Space Pirate piracy. The main difference is _who_ commits the crime, but a few other differences also exist.

Space raiders operate all throughout the Galactic Federation and are not connected in any way except occupation. Space Pirates, on the other hand, are based in the Unclaimed Territories and only a problem to a small region of the Federation. They largely overpower the local space raiders because of their better organization and ability to hide and thrive outside of the Federation.

Space hunters are an entirely different kind of animal, characterized by extremist beliefs and unnecessarily violent tactics. Whereas both Pirates and raiders seek to turn a profit, hunters merely seek to call attention to a particular cause or overthrow "the government", an impossible task given the de-centralized nature of the Federation. Often disenfranchised segments of the population (be it by species, culture, or religion) space hunters are the largest direct threat to artificial fiefdoms. Terrestrial fiefdoms, as mentioned above, are less vulnerable to attack due to their size and natural environment. Before proper protocol could be set and carried out, the space hunters successfully damaged forty-seven platforms by ramming ships full of powerful explosives into them, in the process, killing almost six million people. Once protocol was established, these type of attacks became largely obsolete but smaller scale attacks are still common.

Space hunters have become localized threats dotted throughout the Federation, mainly dealt with by the at-risk fiefdoms, but when space hunter groups grow too powerful, the Federation will send in Galactic Policemen to take care of them.

**XIV. How Samus Works**

Samus Aran

...Species: Human  
...Height: 150 centimeters  
...Mass: 70Kg  
...Eyes: Blue  
...Hair: Blonde

The Power Suit  
...Height: 215 centimeters  
...Mass: 300Kg

The Power Suit consists of two major subsystems – weapons and defense.

**A. Weapons**

The base Power Suit at the start of SYNM comes equipped with an arm cannon capable of firing energy beams. Simple Power shots consist of charged energy. These spread out the energy over a large area, requiring less accuracy but causing relatively little damage per square centimeter. This shot is damaging to organics or electrical systems but nowhere near powerful enough to break walls or armor. The full Power shot is smaller, more compact, and can burn a hole in a human being or dent light armor while a standard shot will merely be painful and stun. The cannon can be set between these two extremes and usually is. Several "normal" shots will cause quick cardiac arrest and severe burns on an unprotected person. In situations where walls and other "tangible" things need something punched through, a concussive missile blast becomes useful.

While it's probably a game mechanics issue more than anything (okay, it is), and Samus's suit is designed to fire suit generated energy missiles, as SYNM is set before the events of Metroid 1, Samus hasn't had the opportunity to use that particular upgrade. Nevertheless, Samus is capable of wielding external missile launchers or even hacking the suit to a degree, but nothing will be as seamless as a true Chozo upgrade. She seems to stumble into them wherever she goes, but for what reason it won't happen while we're writing it.

The other weapons system available is hand-to-hand combat. The servomotor driven suit amplifies the natural abilities of the wearer up to a hundred fold, enabling a punch to launch a foe across a field instead of back a few feet. However, such amplification is not always required and is often not helpful, so the suit is held back from doing the most damage except as a last resort. Samus has been dutifully trained in the ways of Chozo martial arts and is a formidable opponent even when lacking her suit, though if she has to face armored opponents, she would be at a severe disadvantage.

**B. Defense**

The suit is shielded by an energy-driven deflector shield. This shield uses the suit's power supply to deflect energy and kinetic attacks—to a degree. If the shield generators are overloaded, the suit is left vulnerable to physical attack. In case of physical damage to the pilot, the suit is capable of minor medical treatment such as release of painkillers through direct skin transfer, blood clot application, as well as temperature modification to heat or cool the injury as needed. The suit cannot mend a broken leg, of course, but it can work to mitigate internal and external bleeding, and keep the pilot active and alert.

If the entire suit electrical system fails, an emergency manual release is available, and when activated, all latches and internal retention systems release, and the pilot is left to escape. This could prove to be fatal in the presence of harmful atmosphere or vacuum, but this is a last resort and is the only means to give a possibility of escape.


End file.
